


It's Not What You Think

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Depressed John, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Greg as caretaker, M/M, Post Sherlock's fall, Sally is a good bro, loads of comfortable domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-22 13:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 45,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6081792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock jumps from St Bart's, John is a broken man. The other man most affected by Sherlock's fall is Greg Lestrade.</p><p>When Greg tries to comfort John old feelings come up. It's definitely not the beginning of Greg's feelings for John. Not in the least.</p><p>What will it take for these men to move past the most tragic point in their shared history and possibly find happiness? We'll just have to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts), [Darth_Nonie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Nonie/gifts), [PenelopeWaits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/gifts), [Itsallgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallgood/gifts), [Fandoms_Unite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Unite/gifts), [Le_Tabby_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Tabby_Cat/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts), [Megabat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/gifts), [kitmerlot1213](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmerlot1213/gifts), [Jberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/gifts), [Oleta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oleta/gifts), [kree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kree/gifts).



[](http://s1026.photobucket.com/user/akayarnjunkie/media/Mobile%20Uploads/IMG_3807_zpsevxgp17j.jpg.html)

John sat in Sherlock's chair with a glass of whiskey resting on his knees. The video played for the seventh time from the telly across the room.

-Sherlock, bare chested, turned to the camera. The shot was from the waist up and John was giggling in the background. Sherlock frowned and pointed at the camera, saying something that wasn't picked up by the microphone. The auto-focus went to the periodic table poster behind Sherlock and then his face again.

'You're a horrible man, John Watson,' Sherlock said.

'And you're secretly a slut for the camera,' John replied, obviously taking the video.

'I am not a slut!' Sherlock shouted.-

John looked up from Sherlock's chair in horror as Greg Lestrade chose that exact moment to walk in. Greg looked to the screen and saw what appeared to be a naked consulting detective falling back onto his bed.

"It's not what you think," John said, eyes going wide as he searched for the remote control. "Sherlock was, he was playing the violin for me and-"

-The next shot showed Sherlock picking the violin up and standing, the camera catching his pyjama trousers in the shot for a second before panning out.-

John turned the volume down and Greg watched as Sherlock played a tune several times before the video ended.

"You don't have to explain anything to me, John," Greg said, sitting down on the sofa. "We all thought-"

"You aren't listening!" John shouted, fingernails white as he gripped his glass tightly.

Greg took a deep breath, thinking maybe John just needed to admit to someone how he had felt about Sherlock before the man jumped. "I'm sorry. Tell me."

"Do you remember the explosion on Mullin Street?" John asked, taking a long swig of his drink as Greg nodded. "And how Sherlock had temporary hearing damage?"

"As did I," Greg said, remembering how the bomb had surprised the whole team. Remembering it particularly because Sherlock had to be seen by the med team before John was even at the scene. It was a difficult day.

"And remember how we went to the symphony the next month?" John asked, really putting Greg's memory to the test, as he hadn't been there.

"I think I remember him complaining about it," Greg agreed, eyes squinting in concentration.

"He was complaining because he wrote a piece for them and he felt it wasn't performed perfectly. He was composing the week the explosion went off. Partway through the song. You know him," John said, seeming pained before going on, "you KNEW him. He couldn't just stop halfway through anything. He wanted to continue to compose but he couldn't accurately hear his own music."

John looked at Greg for a long time, needing him to understand, and then it clicked.

"So you videotaped him composing," Greg said, sitting back and looking up as if he was still thinking it over.

"Yes. I think he actually liked it, being on camera. You know his ego was, well..." John trailed off.

"But he heard you call him a slut, he responded to it," Greg said.

John threw a hand up and shook his head. "He could read lips. Jesus, you really wanted us to be in a secret relationship, didn't you? I suppose you had some money on that bet. Sorry you lost a fiver, but I lost my best..."

The sound of the glass shattering on the wall shocked Greg and he stood abruptly.

Mrs Hudson flew up the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron. Greg held his hand out to her and she stopped in the doorway.

"I'll take care of the mess, Mrs H. Go ahead and, just, just go back to whatever you were doing," Greg said, voice deceptively calm as his eyes refused to move from John.

Mrs Hudson turned and left and Greg closed the door slowly, John finally looking up as the lock was turned with a clink.

"What do you want, Greg?" John asked angrily.

"I want you to get your shit together and make me a drink," Greg said, picking up John's shoes and bringing them to him. "And I'll clean up the broken glass. Watch where you step."

"I'm not looking for a casual drinking buddy," John said, unmoving. "I'm getting thoroughly pissed."

Greg held the shoes out and shrugged. "Then I guess I'm spending the night on the sofa."

John watched him for a moment, hoping he'd cave and just bloody leave. He was too drunk already to try to outwit the man, though, and also too drunk to have the energy to try to talk him out of staying. He took his shoes and slipped them on before going to the kitchen to wash a few glasses.

_____

Two hours later, and it was ten at night and Mrs Hudson had taken her evening soother and gone to sleep. Greg was holding his eighth shot of whiskey. He was pressed up against John on the sofa, shoulder to shoulder, neither of them able to sit up fully, and openly crying.

"I should've done something more," he said, voice tense.

"Bullshit!" John shouted, hand going to grip Greg's thigh and then pulling away again. "It was fucking Moriarty. Mycroft gave him stuff, information, and he knew things and, and, bloody Mycroft caused it all!"

"But I let Sally and Anderson ruin his name," Greg said, his voice now soft and fragile, as if saying it aloud might make them appear.

"You couldn't stop them," John said, drinking his shot and trying to stand.

Greg could see him perfectly if he kept his head turned to the side but everything seemed to be slipping to the right. John made it to the kitchen but didn't move at all once he'd gripped the edge of the sink. It occurred to Greg that maybe someone had pressed the pause button on real life because everything seemed completely still.

Then John vomited.

Greg stood and went to join John at the sink, moving him to the table behind them and pouring him a tall glass of water. He was quite proud of himself for getting it to John without spilling, after filling it too full and having it drench his hand and shirtsleeve in the sink. John drank it and rested his whole upper body on the table.

"I miss him," John said, voice muffled by his arm. "I miss him everyday."

Greg found himself doing something he'd always told himself not to. Now, however, it really didn't matter. He stroked the back of John's neck, surprised by how much his body responded. John skin was damp and warm and Greg couldn't stop himself from rubbing his thumb just below the edge of John's collar. He felt John hum and thought he might just die.

"I know you miss him," Greg said, both hands going to John's shoulders.

"He was, he was my best friend," John said, starting to sob.

Greg breathed deeply and felt John shake. It was all he could do to whisper to John that he would make it through this. It was all he could do to tell John he was strong. It still wasn't enough.

Greg realised for the first time that Sherlock was really gone as he found himself running his fingers through John's hair without the fear of Sherlock finding out.


	2. The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning brings something new to light.

The next morning, a soft knock woke John and he was temporarily disoriented. This happened when he slept in Sherlock's bed. 

The knock was coming from the hallway and he climbed out of the bed, still fully clothed, thank god, and went to the door. He'd found himself laying in Sherlock's bed approximately five times before, each after a long day involving too much drink, and had only been naked once. He felt like that had somehow crossed a line, a line more important than the one saying you shouldn't sleep in your dead mate's bed. 

"I'm not, I'm not feeling well, Mrs H," he said through the door, shoulder leaning against it as he dealt with the massive headache that came along with the previous night's drinking.

"I have food," Greg said from the other side of the door. 

Greg. Fuck. Of course Greg was there. John tried to think back on what had happened the night before but after a moment he gave up, knowing he'd had so much whiskey his brain hadn't even attempted to take notes.

"And pain meds. If you're feeling anything like I was when I woke you're about to lop your own head off," Greg added when there was no response.

John looked down to where the shadow of his feet darkened the space under the door and then leaned closer. "Thanks. I'll just, erm, I'll brush my teeth and be out."

He heard Greg walk away and went into the loo, quickly taking an Alprazola to head off the inevitable panic attack and brushing his teeth before emptying his bladder. He felt raw, like the insides of his eyelids had been rubbed with steel wool.

When he opened the door to the kitchen Greg was setting out a massive fry-up from a little place down the street and had two black coffees and two glasses of juice waiting. He sat across from where Greg was working and picked up one of the coffees, sipping it and watching Greg move. 

He never quite knew why he hadn't ever been close to Greg. They liked the same things, most notably; Sherlock and football, and were really quite alike. They'd gone out for a pint a few times and Greg had always been a load of fun to be around but...but then he'd come home, to Sherlock.

That was it, wasn't it? John went home to Sherlock. He only really had room for one person in his life and that person took up more than their fair share, just ask any one of his ex girlfriends. 

Now he felt like shite, remembering that it had always been either Greg suggesting they go out or him calling Greg so he could complain to someone about Sherlock. It was probably how Sarah felt. He hadn't realized how selfish Sherlock had made him, how his overwhelming love, and, yes, he realised it as love now, for the genius had made him emotionally bankrupt for anyone else. He was so attached that he really had nothing left to give. 

And still, after all these years, Greg was here. He was offering support when John had no one, when John's complete infrastructure had been dependent on Sherlock and was now in pieces at his feet. What did that make John?

"Paracetamol," Greg said, holding out two tablets and a small glass of water. "I saw you didn't have any in."

John took them and tossed them back, wincing and swallowing hard. Greg waited to be handed the glass back and then put it in the sink.

"Thanks for all this but...I mean, won't your wife be upset that you aren't home?" John said, trying to give Greg a way out.

Greg stilled for a second and it occurred to John that he hadn't heard anything about the wife for quite some time. 

"We were divorced last May," Greg said, clenching his jaw and finally taking the seat across from John.

"I'm sorry, I, I didn't know," John stammered, taking the fork and knife Greg offered and holding them awkwardly.

"Yeah, well, stuff happens. Wasn't like we were happy."

John nodded and went about cutting into his breakfast, wanting to fill his mouth so he wouldn't manage to cock anything else up, for the time being. After a while he cleared his throat and glanced up. Saying sorry had always been difficult for him.

"I want to apologise for last night," he said, voice serious. "I got out of hand and you were more than forgiving. There are a lot of things I shouldn't have said."

Greg shook his head and set down his fork. "You don't have to apologise. I didn't stay because you made me."

"You're right," John said, "you stayed because you're a good friend. A good friend to me, nonetheless. Which I can't really understand. I'm not a good friend to anyone."

"That's not true," Greg said, wanting to reach across the table and take John's hand.

"When was I a good friend?" John asked, watching Greg pointedly while eating a fried tomato.

Greg looked up in concentration and then slumped forward. "Want to know the truth?"

John shrugged.

"I'm a good friend to you because you were a good friend to Sherlock. He wouldn't let me be his friend. I tried. But you...he was so different," Greg said, his voice faltering on the word 'different'.

John watched him for a second before things slipped into place. He wasn't sure if what he was feeling was relief or despair, the two feeling so much the same right then. Relieved that he wasn't the only one who had loved Sherlock, full of despair over the fact that Sherlock was gone, jealous that Sherlock was loved by someone else, happy they lost him, too. The thoughts he had were damning but one thing stood out. 

They were the same.

"Did you love him?" John asked, for once in his bloody life asking what he really meant to.

Greg looked down at his plate and pushed the food around. "As much as you can love someone who doesn't love you back."

"So a great deal?" John asked, unwavering.

"I didn't expect anything to happen," Greg tried to explain. "I wasn't, you know, romancing him. He wasn't interested in me, or anyone, I thought, so it was...it was a nonstarter. I cared deeply about him. Let's leave it at that."

"Fair enough," John said, the cloud of emotion parting and, yes, that was relief.

Greg finished the rest of his beans and sat back, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin. "I've got to head to work."

"Oh, yeah. I'll, well, I suppose I'll see you around," John said, suddenly feeling bereft.

"Listen," Greg said, standing and sticking his hands in his pockets. "That video where Sherlock is playing violin..."

John looked up and cocked his head to the side.

"Are there more?" Greg asked.

"Three," John said, he answer falling out of him before he even thought of being selfish and keeping them to himself.

"Maybe I could come by tomorrow night and we could watch one," Greg said, standing awkwardly.

John felt emotion well up in his throat and knew if he hadn't taken the Alprazolam earlier he would have been crying by now. "Yeah. I'll, I'll cook us something. Beer only, this time, though."

"Good idea," Greg said, running his hand through his hair. "I'll text you."

"Okay," John replied softly, "okay."

And then Greg was gone. Going back into the world that took Sherlock from them both and leaving John with what felt like a new bullet hole in his chest and a brick in his stomach.

_____

"Please tell me you got laid," Sally said, walking into their office without knocking and finding Greg changing into the spare suit he had in the small closet behind the door.

"I feel like I should be disturbed by the fact that you don't knock but I can seem to bring myself to be anything but accepting," he said, leaving the collar of the shirt open and turning on his electric razor.

"Why, thanks, boss," Sally dead-panned, leaning back against the closed door.

Greg sighed, knowing from experience that she wouldn't back down. "I didn't get laid. I was helping a friend."

"Helping a friend get sloshed?" she asked loudly enough to get a flinch out of the man. "I know when you're hungover."

"I went to see John," he said, surprised it had come out.

Sally had the forethought to keep her mouth shut. 

"We ended up getting drunk," Greg added. "He's in really bad shape."

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her jaw working.

"Yeah, well, he's my friend. I don't want him to off himself."

The words stung and Sally frowned and left the room. Greg wondered if he would ever really be able to forgive her. 

They were working together fine enough and days at a time would pass when neither of them thought of Sherlock's jump from Bart's or Greg's subsequent demotion. They were on the same level now, even though Sally still called him boss, and they shared an office. Greg wondered if the higher ups had asked her to keep an eye on him, to make sure he didn't get anymore 'bright ideas'.

He knew she hadn't meant for Sherlock to do what he did but it seemed obvious to everyone that it was in response. She'd at least helped to get the charges against John dropped. 

He put down the razor and pinched the bridge of his nose, his mind returning to the night before. It wasn't all a blur.

His hand in John's hair.

It was damp with sweat and a bit longer than John usually liked to keep it. All Greg wanted to do was bend down and kiss the back of his neck. All he wanted to do was hold the man and put him back together.

John had gripped him around the waist as Greg stood between his legs, his upper thighs pressed painfully into the edge of the table, and buried his face in Greg's stomach and cried so much that there was a huge wet spot on Greg's shirt when he finally pulled away.

Greg spent a good ten minutes running his hand through John's hair as the man broke, not for one moment wanting to be anywhere else in the world. 

_____

John didn't get dressed. Well, that isn't entirely accurate. He didn't get redressed. He stayed fully dressed from the day before, sweating into his clothes and not even bothering to put on a fresh layer of deodorant. He felt disgusting but he also didn't have the energy to get up and take a shower.

The whiskey bottle, the third he'd opened that week alone, was staring at him from across the room. 

In the afternoon he made himself a drink and went back to sleep.


	3. Similar Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes it over to Greg's and they have a comfortable night in.

The next day around lunchtime John's mobile rang. It was a strange thing to have happen. John wasn't even sure how the thing was still charged as he hadn't used it in several weeks. Mrs Hudson must have been seeing to it. The sound the ringer made was disturbing and foreign.

"Y-yeah?" John said, voice uncertain as the last time he'd received a call from Sherlock washed over him.

"It's Greg," came a voice from the other side of the line.

John's brain was kind enough to supply him with what it thought Greg was calling to say.

'I know I said we should hang out tonight, but I was only being nice.'

'I was hoping you could just lose my number.'

'I don't really want to see you.'

'Drinking with you was a mistake.'

'Can you manage not to cry tonight?'

"Hello?" Greg asked when the line was silent for a long time.

"Oh, yeah, what's up?" John said, swallowing down on a bout of self-hatred.

"I know we said we'd watch the video at your place tonight," Greg said, "but I thought maybe we could do it at mine. Give you a chance to get out."

John continued to listen, sure that wasn't the last of what Greg was going to say.

"Unless you don't want-" Greg tried to add.

"No, that's...that'll be fine. Can you text me the address?" John asked, sitting up on the sofa and running a hand through his hair.

"Of course," Greg said. "Why don't we say seven? Bring a six pack and I'll make us dinner."

John nodded and then remembered that didn't translate and made a sort of hum of approval.

"Good, I'll, I'll see you then?" Greg asked.

"Yeah," John agreed. "See you then."

_____

John thought he must have given the cabbie the wrong address. He'd always imagined Greg living in a small flat post-divorce. Instead he found himself standing in front of a small house, lawn a bit out of order but everything else tidy. It was a sort of domestic that he hadn't expected from Greg, the man who seemed to live out of his car. He looked over his shoulder nervously and then back again, six pack held against his hip.

"John," Greg shouted from the kitchen window, waving a hand towel.

Well, that settled it, then.

John walked up to the front door just as Greg opened it and was ushered into a sitting room furnished in mid century Scandinavian design. It reminded him of several Danish shows he had been trying out as of late. Not at all what he'd expected, even when he didn't know what to expect.

"Nice place," John said, handing the lager over and following Greg into the kitchen.

"Thanks," Greg said, setting two bottles aside and putting the rest in the fridge. "I was lucky to keep it after the divorce, I know."

"Yeah," John said, so out of use at small talk that his thoughts just came rushing out. "I imagined you in a really shitty flat with nothing but a sofa and telly."

Greg snorted and opened their drinks, passing John his. "Thanks, mate."

"Sorry, I didn't mean-" John tried, back-peddling.

"Don't worry about it," Greg said, easy smile giving John pause. "I think that's what everyone expected. Elise knew better than to try to take everything, though. She was the one sleeping around, after all. She was a publicist, don't know if I ever told you, so I would have ended up with alimony if I'd wanted it. I settled for the house."

John tried for levity. "So you were a kept man?" 

"In comparison, yes," Greg said, leaning back against the counter and taking a long sip of his lager.

John swallowed and wondered how he would ever find enough words to fill a whole evening. 

"I've just put the food in the oven. Want to watch something on the telly?" Greg asked, removing his apron. "I saved the Hull v Man U match." 

John smiled and something tight pulled in Greg's chest. It had been so long since he'd seen a genuine smile from John that he actually forgot how much it always affected him. 

And there, there was that feeling again, the one that told him to run his fingers back into John's hair and pull him into a kiss. 

He cleared his throat and led the way back to the sitting room.

_____

Dinner was done at the half and John and Greg were both so excited from the match that they forgot the video of Sherlock completely. It sat on the table next to the sofa while they listened to Robbie Mustoe pick apart the first half and speculate on whether Hull could make it through the second with any small amount of self respect intact.

"Dawson never should have left the Spurs," Greg said, cutting into his shepherd's pie and looking forlorn.

John grinned at Greg and found he couldn't look away from the man. "Are you a secret Hotspur fan?" he asked, chewing and starting his second beer.

"Arsenal all the way," Greg said, narrowing his eyes at John playfully.

"Bullshit," John said, actually giggling now. "You're a lily white and you've got a hard on for the Daws."

Greg snorted and bumped shoulders with John, licking his lips and raising an eyebrow as a recap of the first half panned past Michael Dawson's pert arse. "Never said I wouldn't mind plowin that field, don't misquote me."

"Isn't he a little young for you, old man?" John teased.

Greg drew in a deep breath and found he wanted nothing more than to snog the living crap out of John. He pushed it down and took a long pull from his beer.

"Oh, I'd teach him a thing or two," he said. "With age comes wisdom."

"So you do admit you're a disgusting old man?" John said, his hips rolling on their own as he pushed Greg harder.

"Dirty, perhaps," Greg said. "But I'm sure you suspected that. Not that you're far off. Don't let the gray hair confuse the matter, captain."

John snorted and fell back against the sofa with a sigh. "Greg Lestrade, confirmed dirty old man."

"And in good company," Greg said, holding his bottle aloft until John clinked it with his own.

_____

At the end of the evening John was sated and happily buzzing. The match had ended with a bang and he was sat on the sofa with Greg's feet in his lap, massaging them as Greg went on about his uni conquests.

"That was the last time I bedded a TA. Too much trouble. Figured I could just do the studying myself from there on out," Greg said, head propped on the far arm of the sofa and hands resting on his stomach. 

"Ever date a professor?" John asked, working his thumbs into the arch of Greg's left foot.

"Cor, no," Greg said, "but I wanted to. There were a couple I woulda gone home with. You?"

John's lips curled into a devilish smile and Greg had to choke back on a moan. "No. Commanding officer, though. Had myself a couple of them."

Greg chuckled and wriggled his toes. "Oh, really? Have a thing for men in positions of authority?"

"Not how you're thinking," John said with a snort. "They ended up letting me be in charge."

"An' you don't think one of them coulda changed your mind about that...position?" Greg prodded, cheeks reddening as arousal pooled low in his stomach.

"What's the matter, detective inspector," John drawled, "you rather think of me on the taking end of things?"

Greg rolled his eyes and drank down the rest of his last beer. "Keep your hands busy and I won't lament what could've been."

John chuckled and moved onto his right foot.

_____

Two hours later Greg was calling John a cab and they were cleaning up from dinner. John was in a sort of haze, drunk from the physical proximity more than the beer. It had been a long time since he'd been intimate with anyone, if you could call what they'd had on the sofa intimacy. Not kissing or anything like that, no, but affection between two people. It was...life affirming.

When the cab pulled up John didn't want to leave. He dried his hands and stuck them in his pockets as they walked out to the kerb. 

"I've got two other matches saved," Greg said, shrugging.

"I've got nothing better to do," John replied with a soft smile.

Greg snorted and shook his head. "Quite the vote of confidence."

"Text me," John said. "Tomorrow."

"Alright," Greg said, leaning in as if to take John in a kiss but opening the cab door for him instead.

John hated that a small part of himself was disappointed.


	4. Don't Let Him See

Greg texted John the next day at lunch. He didn't get a response. He texted again when he got home and still didn't get a response.

As he sat on the sofa that night eating dinner by himself his stomach turned thinking about the night before. He'd been too forward, too comfortable. He'd made John feel like not responding to his texts. He'd crossed a line.

He promised himself then that he would be careful not to flirt with John from there on out. It wasn't fair to the man, anyhow, to put the pressure of a possible relationship on him just months after...

_____

Mrs Hudson called him three days later. She was in a panic. John hadn't left the flat since he'd been to Greg's and now he was drunk in the middle of the afternoon and banging around upstairs. She was worried he might hurt himself.

Greg came as quickly as he could, telling Sally it was a family emergency and running to his car. He made it to the flat in ten minutes.

"John?" he said, knocking on the upstairs door after assuring Mrs H that he'd take care of things.

There was a loud thump and Greg opened the door to find John pushing Sherlock's chair across the room towards Sherlock's bedroom, the whole sitting room in disarray. Greg walked in and closed the door behind him, taking his jacket off and looking around.

"Doing a bit of redecorating?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

John looked up and Greg could see he was barely there.

"Mrs Hudson is worried about you. Says you haven't been out of the flat in a few days," Greg added, moving closer slowly.

"All his stuff," John mumbled, going back to pushing the chair. "All his stuff is here and I can't, I can't look at it. All his stuff. All of it."

Greg swallowed and nodded, walking closer still and settling a hand over John's. "The carpet is bunched up. That's why the chair won't move. John, when was the last time you ate."

"Liquid diet," John snorted, slipping to his knees and letting his head rest in the seat of the chair.

Greg placed a hand on John's back. "I'm going to make something, alright? Why don't you rest on the sofa?" 

John didn't move so Greg helped him up and across the room, settling him on his side and pulling a blanket over him. When he was sure John wouldn't get up he went to the kitchen, pushing things aside, and started water for tea. 

When he saw there was plenty of food in the fridge he went about making a sandwich and pouring a tall glass of milk. By the time he was done the tea was ready and he brought the whole lot over and sat John up.

"I bet you're hungry," he said, passing over the glass of milk and noting how greasy John's hair was.

John drank the milk down and started on the sandwich, barely the reserved man Greg had seen so often.

"Would you like a bath after this?" Greg asked, voice soft.

"I'm not a child," John spat, eyes tearing up.

Greg bit his lip and agreed. "No, you aren't. But I can still help out, can't I?"

"I forgot the video of Sherlock at your house," John said, picking at the sandwich now that he'd eaten half. "I need it back."

"Of course," Greg said. "I'll bring it back tomorrow."

"No," John said, sounding confused. "I need it back tonight. I have to keep them together. It's him, it's him in the video. Not like, not like in the press conferences. It's him. How he really was. It's him in the video."

"Okay," Greg replied, growing even more concerned, if that were possible, "I'll get it today. How about we get you a shower and then you come with me?"

"Yeah," John said, nodding.

_____

Greg stood outside the loo while John showered, wondering if he'd make it out without slipping and injuring himself. He wasn't particularly drunk but he was definitely out of sorts. When John got out of the shower and went upstairs to get dressed Greg told him he'd be waiting in the car. Instead he went down to see Mrs H.

"When was his last appointment with his therapist?" he asked, speaking softly where they stood in the entryway.

She fluttered her hands a bit before sticking them in the pockets of her apron. "Oh, I'm not sure. I know he was supposed to go this week because I got a call that he'd missed it. Bit disheartening that he put me as his emergency contact."

"Could I get the number for their office?" Greg asked.

Mrs Hudson nodded and went into her flat to scrawl it down on a piece of paper. When she came back out and handed it to him he tucked it away and held her by the shoulders. She looked like she was going to burst into tears.

"I'll take care of this," Greg said, soothing her as best he could and being reminded of his mother when his father had passed. "He's going to be fine."

John opened the door and started down the stairs and Greg kissed Mrs H quickly on the cheek before heading out the door to start up the squad car.

John was frowning harshly when he slipped into the passenger seat. "I'm sorry it if was...harsh."

"No worries, mate. We all have bad days." Greg pulled out onto the street and started towards his house. 

They sat quietly for the ride and by the time they got there John had relaxed a bit, as if his proximity to the video dictated his emotional state. And, strangely enough, it might have done. He cleared his throat and followed Greg into the house.

"Would you like to watch it?" Greg asked, paying close attention to the way John's fingers brushed over the dvd case before picking it up.

"Don't you have to get back to work?" John asked, eyes fixed on the case.

"I've taken a half day," Greg said, removing his jacket and standing by the door. "I've got ginger ale and crisps in."

John seemed to weigh his options and sighed, nodding weakly and fidgeting where he stood. Greg went to the telly and turned it on then pressed the eject button on the DVD player and let John put the disc in, not willing to take it from his hands.

"Would you like some crisps?" he asked.

"Stop treating me like an invalid," John said bitterly.

"Fine," Greg said, turning and going to the kitchen, not hurt by the statement as he knew John was right.

It was hard for him not to treat John with care. He saw how broken the man was. It was difficult to miss.

He finally settled back onto the sofa, setting the crisps on the low coffee table and fiddling with the remote until it had the right input.

"Ready?" he asked, receiving an immediate eye roll.

He pressed the button and the scene played out.

-Sherlock was fussing with something on the sofa as the camera approached.

'What's taking so long?' John asked from behind the camera, teasing.

Sherlock didn't reply and John laughed and cursed under his breath, apparently remembering Sherlock couldn't hear him. John's hand could be seen in the shot as the camera angle changed and he picked up a biro from the table. The camera focused on Sherlock again and the biro was lobbed through the air, hitting Sherlock in the back.

'What in the-' Sherlock said, turning with a frown and looking at the pen on the ground. 

John giggled and Sherlock scrunched up his nose in distaste.

'That wasn't funny the first time,' Sherlock admonished, 'and it's not funny now.'

'You just always used to catch them,' John said, the camera wobbling as he shifted it to the other hand.

'I'm so very sorry that I'm not living up to your expectations,' Sherlock said flatly. 'Is that thing on?'

'Yup,' John said pulling the one syllable out.

'I haven't done my hair yet,' Sherlock hissed, his hands going up to fuss with that one curl that was perpetually resisting assimilation.

'You look fine,' John said, and then under his breath, and barely picked up by the camera. 'Vain git.'

Sherlock crossed his arms. 'Whispering doesn't work, John.'

'Fine, get on with it, then,' John said with a loud laugh.-

John's hand closed around Greg's and for a moment Greg's heart stopped. John pulled the remote free of his hand and tossed it to the chair opposite before slipping his shoes off and pulling his knees up to his chest. 

"It's hard watching this," he said, moving closer to Greg and closing his hand around Greg's again, this time with nothing to keep their fingers from lacing together.

"I know," Greg said, amazed that he could speak when he could barely even breathe.

"He was funny," John said, talking over the violin playing on the video. "People didn't think he was funny but I just think...I think they didn't really see him. He was so..."

Greg let John hold his hand and didn't try to say anything as the rest of the video played. 

It was quite a shock having someone's hand in his. The last time he'd had someone holding his hand had been his wife, and God, that had been years ago. And John, John had strong hands. They weren't large but they were callused and muscled and Greg wanted to kiss every inch of them. 

It was frustrating because he wanted to run his fingers along John's palm and wrist but he knew, the hairs on the back of his neck reminding him, that the position they were in was particularly precarious. He knew one movement could have John noticing what he was doing and quite possibly thinking about the implications.

It was probably comfort, that was all. But really, when do two grown men comfort each other by holding hands? 

So Greg stayed completely still where he was, barely a breath between them, and let John hold his bloody hand and stick the edge of his right foot under his thigh and, finally, towards the end of the film, lean his head on his shoulder. 

When the screen went black John pulled away, going to stand and stare out the window, looking frail in his now-loose checked shirt and jeans, and socked feet. 

Greg couldn't make himself move from where he was on the sofa. He couldn't make himself walk up next to John and wrap an arm around him. He couldn't make him pull the man back onto the sofa and wrap his arms around him and rock him to sleep, sleep that he knew John needed. All he could do was offer a distraction.

"Got the Newcastle match," he said to John's back. "If you want."

John nodded slowly and Greg went to retrieve the remote and put it on.

_____

In the next few weeks, after spending almost every night at Greg's, watching football, John decided he'd better start back up at work. Mycroft was paying Sherlock's half of the rent (John was afraid to even broach the subject of just how long it might continue) and the utilities had gone down so he could live off his pension for the time being, but he suddenly didn't want to anymore. 

He'd started actually getting out of bed in the morning again, showering and everything, as he knew he'd probably be going to see Greg in the evening, and found that he didn't particularly like having bugger all to do. He found himself passing the time to see Greg instead of sitting and thinking about Sherlock and if he was going to sit around doing nothing he might as well get paid. 

The fact that he was no longer attempting to drink himself to death was a little triumph he kept from even his therapist, thinking perhaps that if he said it out loud it might reverse. Greg must have noticed because he stopped offering John a beer when he got to Greg's house after the first time he said no. It was nice to not have to talk something like that over. 

He went to speak with his old boss around noon one day after seeing his therapist. He needed to go to the chemist in the hospital anyhow for the new cocktail of pills his psychiatrist had him on and it was just down the way. She was there in her office eating a quick lunch when he knocked on her door.

"John," she said, quickly ushering him in after brushing the crumbs from her hands. "You're looking good."

"I'm doing better," he admitted, still something that always felt strange to say.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, taking a seat and crossing one leg over the other in a way that reminded John of his therapist.

'What can I do for you?' was a much better question than 'How are you feeling?'

"I know it's been several months, and I understand if you've filled it, but I was wondering if I might have my old position back."

"It's yours if you're ready," she said, picking up her drink and taking a long sip, obviously unworried as to his capabilities. "Could you pick it back up next week? Monday, Wednesday, Friday?"

"Yeah, I think I could," he said. 

"Good," she replied, smiling softly at him. "It'll be nice to have you back."

_____

That Sunday when John went over to Greg's he was nervous about telling him. He hadn't started work back up yet and was honestly a bit worried, in the back of his mind, that it might now pan out. If it didn't he would feel like a fool. On the other hand, saying he was going to do it might make it more real in his mind. He thought it over while they worked in the kitchen.

Greg was watching him. It was obvious something was on John's mind but he wasn't sure what it was. He let John come to terms with whatever had changed in the past few days and stirred the pasta. John would say it soon enough, if he knew the man at all.

"That smells amazing," John said, cutting up the French bread. 

"I got fresh basil from the store," Greg said, "and used more garlic than I probably should have."

"No such thing," John said.

"Pass me the salt," Greg replied, enjoying the fact that John now knew where everything was in the kitchen and not willing to delve too deeply into why that made him happy.

"I'm going back to work," John said as he passed the salt over.

"Good."

John nodded, something he did unconsciously when he was trying to convince himself. "Yeah. Three days a week."

And there it was, out in the ether. As simple as that and, once again, without question. 

_____

After the match they were in the kitchen cleaning up when something John didn't realise was worrying him threw him very nearly to the ground.

"Want to spend the night again?" Greg asked. "You know the guest room is always there."

"I shouldn't," John said abruptly, taking a step back from the sink and feeling his chest tighten. "I have work in the morning so..."

"Should I call you a cab?" Greg asked, not noticing the change in John.

All of the sudden John was hyperventilating and Greg was turning to catch him and direct him into a chair. Greg had helped John through a panic attack before and knew exactly what it was.

"I can't, I can't go back. I can't," John said, shaking.

"You don't have to," Greg said. 

"I do!" John shouted. "I bloody live there! I've got nowhere else to go!"

"Move in," Greg said, it coming out before he knew he was saying it.

In truth he'd been thinking about proposing it to John. It was obvious John didn't want to be around all of Sherlock's things and he was never any trouble when he was at Greg's house.

"What?" John said, the redirection seeming to startle the beginning of the panic attack away.

"Rent the extra room from me," Greg said. "I could use the income and you always get me to cook instead of ordering pizza. Shit, John, you spend a hell of a lot of time here already...so just...move in."

John gripped his hand and looked him in the eyes and Greg hoped against hope that he didn't see what was firing off in his brain, the excitement that came from the idea of John being close all the time. 'God,' he thought, 'please don't let him see.'


	5. It'll Take Time

John slept in the extra room that night, wondering if he'd be a horrible burden and Greg just didn't see that yet. He didn't know if he could keep up with the way he was that week, with being surprisingly functional. What happened if he fell back into the pit of depression? What happened if he got suicidal again? What was he doing being so physically close with Greg when they were just friends?

What he did know was that he couldn't live in 221b. That was bloody obvious. He had missed how much he was attempting to avoid it, missed the fact that he got anxious every time he went back. Now he couldn't deny that anymore.

_____

The next morning when John got up he could hear Greg in the loo. He slipped on his denims and went to the kitchen to start coffee, something that made him feel useful, and then sat at the small kitchen table. 

When he heard the shower turn on he waited until he heard Greg get in and close the curtain, the metal rings holding the curtain up made a distinct scratching sound, and then knocked.

"Come in," Greg said, voice rough from sleep.

John walked in and went to the toilet. "Started coffee."

"You, John Watson, are a saint," Greg replied with a long sigh.

John washed his hands and tried not to stop himself from smiling. He had only started coffee, after all, it wasn't like he stopped a war. 

'No,' he thought, 'let yourself have this. Let yourself enjoy this small moment.'

"Want toast?" he asked as he dried his hands. "I'm making eggs, too."

"Mmm," Greg hummed. "Sounds good."

John nodded and left the loo, going to start breakfast and listen to the radio. It all felt so comfortably domestic that he told himself he wasn't asking too much for this to be his life. Greg would be a good roommate and he would let the man do as much as he could to be a good friend. He didn't need to feel so unworthy of that friendship.

Greg joined him in the kitchen and they sat across from each other and ate in silence and everything was amazingly right for the time being.

_____

Greg was smiling at work. He hadn't smiled at work in quite a long time but now he couldn't stop himself. John was going to move in that week and, though he knew for sure that a relationship with him wasn't in the cards, it made him happy. Even when John was feeling like shit, Greg felt better about his life. John might have been a doctor but Greg was the one who constantly found himself in the caregiver role.

"Yeah, that's getting a bit creepy," Sally said from his side.

"Oh, sod off," Greg replied, smile not going anywhere.

"Are you going to tell me what's got you so happy or do I have to guess?" Sally asked.

"It's nothing," Greg said, suddenly feeling a bit sick at the prospect of telling anyone. Especially someone who might see through to his selfish reasons, someone who knew how he always fell so bloody hard for men he couldn't have.

Sally crossed her arms and looked long and hard at Greg.

"John is moving in with me," Greg said after a moment. "He's renting out the second room."

"Oh, bleeding Christ, Greg," Sally said, her arms dropping to her sides.

"What?" Greg demanded. "I'm not allowed to be happy my best friend is moving in?"

Sally's eyes went wide and for a second there was a look of hurt in them. "Best friend? Just admit you've got a crush on him and get over it." 

Greg swallowed hard as she stomped from the room. That...that did not go well.

_____

Sally had seen him through everything. She'd been there every time he'd fallen for someone at work. She saw him for what he was, a bloody romantic who couldn't help but fall in love once someone had caught his eye.

It had always been a problem. Long before Sherlock, and John, Greg had been falling for coworkers. He was just so easily charmed. It made him feel stupid and naïve. It made him hate himself a bit.

It was just as bad that he couldn't make himself fall back in love with his ex wife, or so he thought. He'd tried, tried to trust her again, but it hadn't happened.

Sally was glad the woman was gone. She'd never liked her. 

But Greg...Greg loved so many people. So many people that he thought there might be something physiologically wrong with him. And now there was John. He wanted John to be it for him, but reminded himself that he'd felt that way about Dimmock, too. Sherlock before that. His old captain before that, and so on. One thing he learned was that he could live through it. He could be a good friend and nothing else. He could do that.

_____

John saw Sarah at lunch. She was sitting in the cafeteria alone so he got his tray of food and sat across from her.

"John," she said, surprised to see him.

John smiled at her and nodded. "Long time. How are you?"

"I'm, I'm fine," Sarah sputtered. "Are you back working here?"

"Yeah, um, three days a week for now," John said.

They'd not been the same since he quit working for her at the clinic and their budding relationship had fizzled. John still considered her a friend, though. They were working in separate departments now but they saw each other regularly before...before John had taken a break.

"I'm glad," she said. "I know we missed you around here."

John snorted and took a bite of his salad. "You don't have to lie to me, Sarah. I know I was a horrible employee. Running off all the time and falling asleep on the job. I bet you didn't even know I was gone."

Sarah rested her hand over John's and looked at him with intent. "Just because you weren't always the best around here doesn't mean we don't care about you. You're a good man under all that distraction."

John nearly choked on a sob, nodding and gritting his teeth as he looked down at his tray. The distractions wouldn't happen anymore. They couldn't. 

_____

Greg had agreed to meet John after work and help him pack and when he got there he found that it was almost all done. John was sitting having tea with Mrs H at the table, the place looking almost like John had never been there, if you didn't know about Sherlock's propensity for clutter. There were marked and taped up boxes by the door and Greg walked around them and to the kitchen.

"Gregory Lestrade," Mrs Hudson said upon seeing him, tears in her eyes, "you've gone and stolen him right out from under my nose."

Greg took the seat next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I promise we'll come and visit."

"I knew it was coming, what with...well, I just didn't expect it to happen so soon," she explained. "You'll take care of him for me, won't you?"

John rolled his eyes fondly and Greg kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek. "Of course. He's in good hands."

_____

When they got all of the boxes to Greg's, having stuffed the squad car full, Greg offered to make dinner and John sat at the kitchen table to talk with him while he did.

"How was work?" Greg asked as he chopped carrots for a stir fry.

"Long," John said, resting his elbows on the table. "I forgot how long it could feel when there aren't many patients. It was good to get back, though, and I got to see Sarah."

Greg remembered Sarah. He'd met her when she was involved in the Lotus Gang case. He hated that he felt jealous.

"Oh?" he asked stupidly. "Do you think you might..."

"Get back together with her?" John asked, one eyebrow raised. "Cor, no. As if she'd even have me back."

Greg nodded and went back to cooking.

"I think...I don't think I'll date for a while. I hadn't been for a year or so and now the idea seems horrifying, to tell the truth. I'd love to get a leg over," John laughed, nervously, "but who wouldn't?"

Greg nodded and thought of how he'd like to satisfy that particular hunger, John pulling him out of the thought by speaking again.

"What about you?" he asked.

For a moment Greg thought he was asking if Greg wanted to have sex and he shivered slightly. Work. John was asking about work, obviously.

"Donovan is pissed at me," he admitted. "It wasn't an easy day."

"What's she angry about?" John asked.

"I, uh, called you my best friend. Not that, not that I expect I'm your best, I mean, I know that-" Greg said, cheeks warming as he stuttered out his stupid reply.

John saw fit to interrupt him. "Why did that make her mad?" 

"We're close. Have been for years. I think she assumed she was my best friend. I felt like shite after saying it," and now perhaps he was admitting too much. Leave it to John to get him to open up. The surprising trust John brought out in him was nearly overwhelming.

"You've know her longer," John added. 

"Yeah," Greg said.

He wondered for a long time if John was going to say anything. If he was going to say Greg had crossed a line. When the room stayed silent longer than he was comfortable he cleared his throat and tried to explain himself better.

"I was defending you moving in. She thought, well, I suppose she didn't know we'd become close. Closer."

"She doesn't like me," John said, voice tense as he thought of why.

"She'll have to bloody well get over it," Greg spat, hand stilling where he was cutting the chicken. 

"She will," John said, for once being the level-headed of the two. "And I'll be able to look at her without thinking of him. But it'll take time. I still want to throttle her."

Greg nodded solemnly and got back to cooking. There were still plenty of open wounds, plenty.


	6. Lunch

One month later John found himself braving the Yard for the first time since he'd stopped being a consultant-of-sorts. It seemed louder than he'd remembered. He was hoping to find Greg without having to talk to anyone but before he could get far Dimmock saw him. The man even pretended not to before deciding he'd been caught and walking over.

"John," he said, hands twitching at his sides as he obviously debated holding one out for a shake. He decided against it.

"I'm looking for Greg, uh, Lestrade," John said nervously.

Dimmock looked slightly panicked. "He's in a meeting."

John sighed and held out what he was there for, a think Manila file. "He forgot this at home. I know it's the case he was working on because he was going over it last night."

"Forgot it at home..." Dimmock said, his eyebrows drawing together. "Oh, you're-you two are, that's-"

"No," John said. "We're not together."

"So he's single?" Dimmock said, looking so hopeful and full of youth that John wanted to pull his teeth out one by one. 

Oh. Interesting, that. Strange reaction. But anyhow, the idiot was missing the point.

"Can I just leave this or something?" John asked, not for a second trying to cover his exasperation.

"Oh, I don't, I don't think so," Dimmock said, looking around again.

"Can I wait for him, then?" John tried, hating the way the back of his neck heated as people started to look at the pair.

"Oh, sure," Dimmock said, it coming out in a relieved gust of air.

John followed him down the hall and relaxed the further they got from the front door. He wasn't sure if he'd ever had a more painful interaction in his life. When they finally got to a door John didn't recognise and Dimmock showed him in he was eager for the man to leave.

"I'll just go," Dimmock said, pausing in the doorway. "I just wanted to say-"

"Don't," John interrupted harshly. 

Dimmock nodded once and was gone, leaving John to sit across from the desk he supposed was Greg's, papers with his handwriting covering the top, and rested his head in his hands. They were shaking. 

What he should have been thinking of was how awkward the conversation had been, or, equally, what Dimmock had wanted to say to him. What he was thinking of instead was Dimmock hitting on Greg. Yes, that thought about teeth was back.

He was wondering what the hell he was doing being jealous over Greg when someone walked in the door.

"John," Sally said, seemingly quite surprised to see him.

That was when John remembered how bad an idea it was to begin with.

"Donovan," he said, sitting up straight and keeping his eyes on the folder.

"Greg's in a meeting," she said, not moving from where she seemed to be stuck in the doorway.

John sighed and turned in his seat to hold the file out. "Yeah, don't really need to see him. He just forgot this at home and it was my day off so-"

"You should stay," Sally interrupted, her face saying it was a surprise even to her.

John cocked his head to the side. "Stay?" 

"The meeting he's in isn't going well. You should stay and take him to lunch or something. He's going to be a right arse if he doesn't eat soon," Sally explained.

John watched her to make sure she wasn't going to say anything else and then nodded, a short strange tuck of the chin, and sat facing Greg's desk again.

"You're good for him," she said, her voice softer around the edges. "Whatever this is. What ever the two of you are doing. It's good."

John's mouth opened but he couldn't make himself look back at her. She'd bloody said it, hadn't she? 'Whatever the two of you are doing.' At least John wasn't the only one who found it hard to define. 

She left while he was still stuck in his head. 

_____

"Your boyfriend is waiting for you in our office," Sally said, stopping Greg as he was walking out of the staff meeting.

"What?" Greg asked, spun for a loop. "Oh, Christ. He's not my boyfriend."

"It's the central theme of your five year plan," she said, wry smile on her lips.

Greg's jaw clenched and he stared daggers at her.

"No comment?" she asked.

"Why can't you just leave it?" Greg asked, turning down the hall and letting her pace him.

"Because it matters to you and if you do it your way you'll muck it up," she said. 

"If I do it my way?" Greg asked. "I'm not DOING anything."

Sally's grin was now at full wattage. "Exactly. Not doing a damn thing...but you will."

"You're a pest," Greg said, shaking his head.

"I'll leave you to it," she replied, turning the corner just as they made it to their office.

Greg paused at the door and adjusted his tie. Sally leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. 

Dimmock sidled up next to her. "Greg's single, huh?"

"Not a chance in hell," she said, refusing to even look over at him.

"I thought-" Dimmock tried.

She interrupted him as she started to walk away. "Hands off, Dimmock. And take some advice from me; don't date someone you work with."

_____

"Please save me from this hell," Greg said as he walked to his desk.

"Lunch?" John asked, grinning at the man.

"God, yes," Greg said. "Got a place in mind?"

John stood and walked out to the front with Greg, everything around them disappearing as he noticed the small tells he was learning to pick up. Greg needed someplace where they could talk. "How long are you free?"

"Hour," Greg said, holding the door open for John.

"Take away sandwiches in the squad car?" John asked.

Greg rested his hand on John's lower back as they rounded the corner. "You speak my language, Doctor."

_____

Ten minutes later they were sitting in the car, parked in the large complex behind the Yard, with sandwiches on their laps. Rain was just starting to come down outside and they sat with the radio on low.

"Good?" John asked, watching Greg's shoulders slump as he finally started to relax.

"Can you write me a sick note?" Greg asked, leaning his head against the headrest and looking at John with a small smile. "I think I might need to stay here for the remainder of the day."

John snorted and ate a crisp, thinking to himself how strange it was that Greg could seem so young sometimes. "I'm not your doctor."

"Bollocks," Greg said, taking a large bite of his sandwich.

John laughed and rested a hand on Greg's knee, not sure what he was trying to accomplish with it. The touch felt comfortable. Having Greg so close to him, being able to have that small bit of contact, felt like home.


	7. Old Bastard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really only a half chapter because I'm exhausted! I promise there will be a great full chapter tomorrow.

A month later was Greg's birthday. As usual, his coworkers set up a pub night for him. That night after work John and Greg met for Chinese food before heading to the pub.

"What's it like to be such an old bastard?" John teased, picking at his chow mien.

"You tell me," Greg said, kicking John under the table and then resting his foot against John's, toe tickling the inside of his ankle.

"I'm practically a child compared to you," John said, grinning back at him and kicking his foot away.

Greg chuckled and picked up a piece of his cashew chicken and held it out for John. "You're two years younger than me."

John took it between his lips and raised his eyebrows, chewing it quickly before speaking. "I should have got that."

Greg smiled and held another piece up, completely oblivious to how the other patrons were watching them. "You never know what you want. I should just order for you."

"Or you could continue to let me eat off your plate," John replied, sipping his black tea.

"Or that," Greg agreed. "Like a child."

John stabbed a piece of chicken with his chop sticks and ate it, trying to look grumpy and failing miserably. "When do we have to be at the pub?"

"Three hours," Greg said, sitting back after trading plates with John and starting in on the broccoli beef.

"What should we do until then?"

Greg shrugged. "We could head back to the house and watch the last half of that Bond movie we tried to get through last night."

John nodded and hummed and Greg tried not to stare at him fondly for the rest of their meal.

_____

They ended up walking home, the weather nice for once, and John stopped in to get Greg one of his favorite pastries on the way.

"You're trying to fatten me up, aren't you?" Greg asked, pulling a bit off the edge of the pastry and holding it out for John.

John took it and broke it into two smaller pieces and shrugged. "I reckon you'd look good with a bit more round the middle. God knows you end up missing lunch more than you should."

"Used to think I could run on coffee and nicotine," Greg admitted.

"Add pudding to the mix and you're set," John said, snorting.

They made it into the house and John relaxed back into the sofa next to Greg, reaching across him for the remote without noticing that he'd completely given up on respecting Greg's personal space.

He started the movie back up and took Greg's right hand in his, pressing his thumbs into the palm and stroking down. Greg rested his head against the back of the sofa and John laughed and nudged him with his shoulder.

"No sleeping just yet, old man. You'll miss the best part."

Greg groaned and sat back up, letting John massage the stress from him. It shouldn't have been novel, John always found a way to make him melt into the cushions, but it was. The first few times he was sure John was going to make a pass at him, well, his cock was sure. He managed to breathe deeply now and will away the erection that always seemed to come in response to John's touch. He shifted a bit and John moved to his other hand.

John started to speak the lines along with the spy on the telly and Greg thought he could definitely do this for the rest of his life.


	8. I Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birthday party.

They got to the pub late, Greg not wanting to get off the sofa once they'd settled in and realising at the last minute that they needed to take a cab instead of drive. The whole Met seemed to be cramming themselves into the Fox and Hound and John watched several people look at him with disbelief before Greg wrapped an arm around his shoulder and they looked away.

"What took you so long?" Sally asked, raising her already half empty pint.

"The old man fell asleep on the sofa," John said, figuring now was as good a time as any to be comical.

People laughed and the tense mood seemed to be broken, two women going to the front to get drinks for Greg and John while they sat sandwiched between Sally and a detective John didn't recognise so they could open the gag presents on the table.

The first was a large box that was surprisingly heavy, wrapped clumsily and with a tag that said it was from the whole lot of them. Greg tore the paper off and opened the top, his eyes rolling.

"Show us what it is!" one man said, several of the men and women cheering.

Greg pulled out an industrial sized jar of lube, the label on the front depicting a poorly drawn pair of cartoon tits. Everyone cheered and Sally rested an arm around him.

"With how much lonely wanking you've been doing since the divorce, we thought you might be getting chaffed," she said, shit eating grin saying she wasn't afraid of hurting his feelings.

Pints were set in front of Greg and John and everyone raised their own. Sally stood and looked solemn, and Greg laughed into his glass and took a healthy gulp before holding it aloft as well.

Sally cleared her throat. "To the greatest wanker we know. May your determination ease the way."

John laughed so hard he thought he might choke and then clinked his glass against Greg's.

"Ha bloody ha," Greg said, shaking his head and drinking more.

"Open the other one," Sally urged.

This one was smaller, about the size of a paperback, and wrapped in the same clumsy fashion. Greg tore off the garish bow and opened it. Inside a box there was a single condom. He raised it above his head to raucous applause.

"To replace the one in your wallet that expired seven years ago," Dimmock said, cheeks flushing as he did.

Greg pulled out his wallet and opened it, taking out a battered condom and tossing it to the crowd. One of the young recruits caught it and held it between her teeth and everyone cheered so loudly the football game playing in the back was for once drowned out.

Greg stuck the new condom in his wallet and missed the wink Sally gave John. John quickly looked away and went back to drinking his pint.

_____

Three hours later John was working on his...well, he'd stopped counting pints a long time ago, hadn't he? He was finishing whatever pint he was on. Greg had just got them a stupidly large plate of chips and was holding them in front of his face one by one and giggling when he took clumsy bites. 

The pub had cleared out a bit, most of the men and women having work in the morning, but Sally and five others were in the corner singing along to some old song coming from the speakers and watching a recounting of the match on the telly.

A woman at the bar kept looking at Greg and, God, if his prick wasn't half hard in his pants from the way John's lips kept touching his fingers. And it wasn't as if he'd ever have John, so what really was the harm?

"We should go chat up those two at the bar," he whispered roughly, nodding in their direction.

John snorted and nabbed one more chip from Greg's fingers, his teeth dragging across them in a way that had Greg's cock twitching and arousal pooling low and hot in his stomach and bollocks.

"I get the blond," John said, drinking the remainder of his pint and standing on unsteady legs.

Greg watched his arse, a moment too long for decency, and then followed.

The women giggled when they approached and Greg faced John with the two women between them.

"I'm Loretta," the first said, holding her hand out to John.

"I'm John," he replied, shaking it.

"I'm Alexandra," the second said, holding her hand out to Greg.

"I'm Lestrade," Greg said. "I mean Greg."

John snorted and leaned against the bar. "He usually goes by his last name. He's a detective."

"Oh!" Alexandra said, turning to Greg and grinning, eyes wide. "How exciting. Do you get many murderers?"

"A fair share," John replied for him. "He's a damn good detective."

"You flatterer," Greg said, looking over Alexandra's head at John. "You're a damn good doctor."

"A doctor?" Loretta asked. 

John nodded and bit his lip, looking over her head at Greg, and seeming not to hear her. "Catches baddies all day long, don't you?"

Greg shrugged and grinned wider. "I might catch the baddies, but I'm not a war hero."

"War hero?" Loretta asked, eyes going wide.

John swallowed and looked down and Greg went on. "Not that he'd tell you. Saved so many lives that the enemy had to put a bullet in him to stop him."

John chuckled and gripped his leg. "He's exaggerating."

"You're the bravest man I know," Greg said, the honesty of the statement choking him up. "And thank god for that bullet. Don't know what I'd do if I hadn't met you."

John fidgeted with a napkin, tearing it into pieces and smiling. "Did I mention he's a fantastic cook?"

"A cook, too," Loretta said. "You are impressive."

"I get by," Greg replied.

"Bollocks!" John shouted, his voice coming out a bit louder than intended. "The spaghetti last night? And that garlic bread you made?"

"And you ate so much you tried to convince me to let you sleep on the sofa," Greg added, eyes crinkling.

The two women exchanged looks.

"But you wouldn't let me," John replied, shaking his finger and narrowing his eyes. "Because you're a bloody nag." The cheer in his voice softened his words.

"I wouldn't let you because the rain yesterday made your shoulder act up," Greg said. "You made me rub that balm into it for an hour before you could relax enough to sleep."

"And then you smelled like menthol in the morning," John added.

"So did you!" Greg said, defending himself. "The whole shower reeked of it!"

"You secretly like it," John said with a teasing smile. "Don't think I missed it when you smelled my neck while we were brushing our-"

"I think we'll be off," Loretta interjected, grabbed her purse and standing.

Greg didn't hear her, ducking his head to hide the reddening of his cheeks.

"Not that I minded," John said as Alexandra stood and left as well. "I'm quite over the fact that you've got no respect for personal space."

"I've got no respect?" Greg asked, taking the seat vacated by the woman he was trying to get off with and resting against the bar. "You're the one that always sticks his cold toes under my bum on the sofa."

"Your bum is the warmest place in the house," John said, taking the seat next to him.

Greg leaned on his shoulder and smiled dreamily at John. "Because you never turn the heat on."

"Heating is a scam," John said, settling one foot between Greg's on the bar stool and running the toe up the inside of his pant leg at the ankle. "It's just a way for the government to get more money."

Greg giggled and crossed his arms, swaying where he sat. "Government conspiracy theories? You really are turning into an old curmudgeon."

"You like it," John said.

"God help me," Greg admitted, sighing, "I do."


	9. Hard As You Can

It was finally summer and the flowers Greg had potted out front a week or so after his birthday were in full bloom. He sat on the front stoop picking weeds absently and trying to figure out how to ask John what he wanted to ask him.

He was too old for this. He was too old and his chances of managing any of it without getting hurt were slim. He should let it go. The urge was still there, God was it, but no matter how much he wanted to just push his body until his muscles were aching he wondered if his knees would forgive him. Leave it to the younger men. Maybe John would find his way to them.

"Bloody bollocks," John grumbled, walking up the path to the front door with both hands balled into fists.

"Bad day?" Greg asked, fingers still muddling around in the dirt.

"They changed my pension," John said, sitting next to Greg with a harrumph. "Some bullshit about inflation or something and percentages and I bloody nearly died in the desert so these arseholes could sit comfortably behind mahogany desks and fuck with my livelihood!"

Greg had seen this side of John before. John had trouble with change, especially if that change didn't go his way. Something snapped in him and every other word was a curse.

"Fucking pricks in their Armani suits," John continued. "I'd love to ring their bloody necks. They don't have to do this, you know? They don't! They could leave well enough alone but they want to fatten their own bellies!"

John had always been sensitive when it came to money. They say the world your brain lives in is set up in your early years, and he had been poor growing up, but he really didn't want to think of how much his father's (God rest his soul) decisions still affected him.

"Don't I know it," Greg agreed, aware it was the only route open to him.

"And I just want to..." John steamed, hands clenching and unclenching. "I want to hit something! Or shoot something! Or kick something!"

Greg remembered suddenly what he'd been meaning to ask and perked up a bit. Now or never, Lestrade.

"Join my football club," he said, not even bothering to pose it as a question. "I got an email last week. Some of my mates and coworkers are getting together on Saturdays now. Nothing formal, but it could-"

John had managed to run his fingers into Greg's hair in a way that caused both of their breathing to go slightly off and then stood so as to get as far away from it as possible. "Sorry, don't know what...wires crossed or..."

Greg gaped at him, eyes blinking, for a moment before he pulled himself together. He cleared his throat and looked back at his plants.

"Is that a yes, then?" he said, trying for levity.

"Yes," John said.

"Good," Greg replied. "Prepare to get your arse kissed- no! Kicked."

John snorted and Greg refused to look up at him, his cheeks burning.

_____

"Come on now, lads!" the new detective inspector, a laid back older woman that John found himself quite liking, called from the sidelines. "Watson, move that arse!"

John shook his head and sprinted to catch up with Greg. They jogged around the local pitch a few more times before being broken up into two groups.

"I coached a uni club during the off season last year so don't think I'll go easy on you. I'm used to women in their prime, not used up detectives," she said, winking to Greg, "and out of shape constables. If you don't know the rules by now you might as well forfeit your citizenship."

The lot laughed and she blew her whistle and put the ball into play.

_____

At the end of the match Greg was laying on his back in the grass with John working some balm into his left ankle. It was an old injury that always seemed to shout at him just when he started having a good time. Sally was on her side next to him, picking petals from the ground cover and whistling to herself.

"We should get ice on it when we get home," John said, rubbing small circles into Greg's skin.

"I don't know what I was thinking going after that one," Greg admitted, wincing.

"You were thinking you were twenty again," Sally said. "But it's not the nineteen fifties anymore, grandpa."

John pushed her and giggled when she rolled onto her back and positioned herself like a starfish. "Do me next, doc. My shoulder hurts like a whore."

"Quite the language," the detective inspector said, walking up and surprising all of them.

Sally sat up, a slight blush colouring her cheeks. "Sorry, ma'am. Injury has me all out of sorts."

"Maybe a pint is in order," the detective inspector said, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow. "And when we're off duty you can call me coach."

Sally choked out a hard laugh and held her hand out. "Help me up, coach?"

"Do I get to call you coach, too?" Greg teased as the detective inspector helped Sally to her feet.

"You can call me Sandra," she answered. 

Sally rolled her eyes and then looked to the men. "You two up for a pint?"

"I think we'd best head home after this," John said, rolling Greg's sock up over his ankle. "Doctor's orders."

Sally gave a weak salute and she and the detective inspector made their way off the pitch.

"Off with your shirt," Greg said, sitting up and grabbing the pot of balm.

John pulled his shirt over his head and sat with his back to Greg as the rest of the lot headed for their cars. It occurred to him how much his opinion of his scars had changed due to Greg. That first night that he'd taken his shirt off in front of Greg was huge, he hadn't gone shirtless since he'd been shot. Greg had started in on rubbing his shoulder without a hitch and had never mentioned the scarring. And hell, if it didn't bother Greg, then who bloody mattered?

"You need a hot bath," Greg said, spreading the balm around and then digging his thumbs into John's muscles without hesitation.

John tried to play it down, as he always did. "It's not that bad."

"Liar," Greg said. "You can barely move your arm. Hell, I bet I could even take you in a fight right now."

Greg barely had time to laugh at his little jab before John had flipped around and was holding him down, both hands over his head.

John leaned down, wicked grin on his lips, and whispered into Greg's ear. "Want to say that again, big man?"

"John," Greg said, voice uneven.

"Go ahead, try me," John said.

Greg grunted and rolled them over, gaining ground for a moment until John somehow wrapped one leg around his and he was on his back again. He closed his eyes and tried to wriggle from John's grip but his hands were coated in balm and kept slipping. The sun was high and John's skin was sweaty from the match and the weather and the scent of him coming through the strong menthol of the balm was heady.

"You stink," Greg lied, squirming and letting his face rest on John's neck.

John chuckled and raised his eyebrows. "Given up actually fighting? Now all you've got are insults?" 

"I haven't given up," Greg said, grunting. "I've got you just where I want you."

"You want me in complete control?" John asked, pressing Greg back into the grass and sitting back.

Greg found he was unable to reply. It was strange, because, with anyone else the answer would be a resounding no, but with John...

John licked his lips and grinned. "Give up?"

Greg nodded, somehow out of breath. "Yeah, fine."

"Say it," John said.

"I give up," Greg squeaked.

John chuckled and shook his head. "No. Say you want me in complete control."

Greg swallowed roughly and looked around, nervously trying to find something beyond the press of John's body to focus on. There was nothing.

"Say it," John pressed, the sheen of sweat on his chest making his skin practically glow.

"I might, under certain circumstances, think about possibly letting you be in control," Greg sputtered, eyes squinting from the sun.

That seemed to satisfy John, as he let Greg go and sat once again with his back to him, passing the balm over his shoulder. Greg took it back and settled in, making sure to leave enough space between them for John to remain ignorant of the effect he had on Greg's cock.

"Harder?" he asked, scrambling for something to break the silence.

"Hard as you can," John said, letting his eyes fall closed.

_____

When they finally made it home the tension, and Greg refused to call is sexual tension, refused, had dissipated and they were back to relaxed cohabitation. Until they got into the house, that is.

"Christ, I have to piss," Greg said, tossing his bag aside and making a beeline to the loo.

John tried to push past him. "No way, me first."

"Piss in the back yard if you really can't wait," Greg said, opening the door.

John whined and Greg rolled his eyes, walking right in and pulling himself out without closing the door. John huffed and walked right up next to him, pulling his own prick out and pushing his shoulders back.

"You've got to be bloody kidding..." Greg trailed off as John started to piss.

"Oh, that's good," John said.

"You're disgusting," Greg replied, trying to hold back for a second before finally giving in.

"Fucking wonderful, that is," John said, hand resting on the wall.

"You do this a lot in the army?" Greg asked, trying for insult.

"Shut up," John said, "you're ruining it."

Greg finished and tucked himself back in, going to wash his hands in the sink. When John joined him the water was warm and Greg rolled his eyes and pumped soap into his hands.

"Shower?" John asked.

Greg thought of being in an enclosed space with a wholly naked John and choked a bit as he excused himself.


	10. Cedar And Pine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have Mrs Hudson around for dinner.

Greg realised it was a big thing to ask, he wasn't a robot, after all. He'd put it off, yeah? He'd just enjoyed having John living with him, sharing that perfect space with him for six months without bringing up anything heavy. He knew that no matter how well John was doing there were certain subjects that could pull him apart. Even though, he and John weren't the only people involved in all this.

"I was thinking we should have Mrs Hudson over for dinner," Greg ventured one night as he sat watching John wash the dishes.

He saw the muscles in John's back shift under his vest as he stilled and then stood a bit taller, undoubtedly preparing for battle.

"I could make that carbonara sauce you like," Greg added.

He honestly wasn't prepared for the sound of John's voice in response.

"I don't think that's a good idea," John said, going back to scrubbing the plates.

"You know what, you're right. Let's take her out someplace," Greg tried, thinking his theory of home field advantage had failed.

"I don't want to see her," John replied, sudsy hands clutching the edge of the sink.

"John," Greg tried.

John shook his head from side to side violently for a moment. "No. No, I don't want to see her."

"You can't do this to her. I know it hurts but she's got no one. She was there for you when everything went to hell. We can't just-" Greg tried.

"There is no WE!" John shouted, spinning around to glare at Greg. "There's me, and you. There's me, making my own bloody decisions and there's you minding your own damn business."

Greg was almost shocked into silence, but then again, that wasn't what John needed. "Sure, yeah. You're totally right, John. You get by just fine on your own, don't you? Friends? What are those? Family? Don't really have any. What does it matter anyhow, though? John Watson can take care of himself just fine."

"Fuck you!" John spat.

"No, I get it. You make a damn good point," Greg pressed. "Fuck me. Who the hell am I to tell you when you're being an utter arse?"

John walked across the room and punched his fist into the wall. "Why can't you just let me be selfish?"

"Because you're better than that," Greg said, walking to the loo to get a few paracetamol and then filling a glass with water.

"Fuck you," John said, refusing the pills and resting his head against the wall. This time when he said it there was no heat behind the words, his voice fragile.

"You keep offering and I might just take you up on it," Greg teased.

John looked up at him. Who the hell was this man? How had he ended up in John's life? How was John even managing before he came along?

"Fuck you," John said, voice soft and eyes fixed on Greg's.

For a second he was sure Greg was going to kiss him. God, how he wanted it. He wanted Greg's lips and teeth, wanted to suck on his tongue and on his-

"You're not getting out of it that easy," Greg said, licking his lips before turning to make up an ice pack for John's hand.

"Have mercy," John said, nearly beside himself now with want.

"And have you regret it in the morning?" Greg asked, bringing the pack over and helping John into a seat. "Not likely, Watson. Ice your hand, you idiot."

John took the ice pack and held it to his knuckles, eyes falling closed as Greg ran a hand through his hair.

"We'll take her out next week, then?" Greg asked, pushing John's fringe from his forehead.

John sighed and shook his head minutely. "Let's have her here. Make the carbonara sauce."

"I know it's hard," Greg whispered, finding it incredibly difficult to stop touching John.

"So stop bloody talking about it," John said, voice cracking. 

"Yeah," Greg said. "Okay."

"That's nice," John whispered, pushing his head into Greg's hand.

Greg cleared his throat and kissed John on the top of the head before backing away. "You need a haircut."

_____

John did get a haircut. It always made him feel more centered. He left it just shy of high and tight and when he came home from the barber, face solemn as he thought about (obviously) money, and walked into the house looking straight out of the army, Greg was affected. He tried not to show it, and Jesus, wasn't that his life now?

"What time is Mrs H coming over tonight?" John asked, falling into the seat next to Greg on the sofa and resting a hand on his knee.

Greg wriggled a bit in his seat and cleared his throat. "Five."

"Only an hour to ourselves, then," John said, leaning with his whole side pressed to Greg's. "Have you got dinner on? Anything I can do to help?"

"Just put the sauce on," Greg replied. "Want to grab some rosemary from the garden?"

John sighed and rested against Greg more heavily. "Anything I can do to help...from the sofa?"

Greg chuckled and set down the newspaper, shifting to wrap his arm around John's shoulders. John let his eyes close and Greg gave in to the impulse to run his fingers through John's hair.

"Did they do a good job?" John murmured.

"Mmm," Greg hummed in agreement. "You look proper military."

John snorted and turned to look Greg in the eye. "Is that a good thing?"

Greg swallowed and they were once again in one of those moments where there was definitely something going on between them. Those moments were happening more and more often and Greg felt himself nearly choking with arousal, but he was a coward so he simply nodded and then reached for the remote control.

When he spoke again his voice was tight. "News?" 

John nodded and tamped down his disappointment, wondering if anything would break the dam.

_____

Mrs Hudson fussed over John, telling him how good he looked and asking him if he was dating anyone special. It was a tense dinner, to say the least. It wasn't until pudding that everything went completely pear shaped, though.

"I'm glad you're happy," she said, touching John's hand and tearing up. "I never thought you'd get over him. If one of my boyfriends had ever-"

"We weren't dating," John said, pulling his hand back. "I don't know how bloody often I have to say that. Christ."

Greg intervened, honestly a little annoyed that Mrs H had said anything as they spoken on the phone about it earlier that day. "Why don't I call you a cab. John can make us some tea while we wait."

John got up and left the sitting room, not even waiting for her to respond. He filled the kettle and leaned against the wall, head in his hands. He really bloody did-absolutely-not need to be reminded anymore. 

Mrs Hudson left ten minutes later, kissing both of them on the cheek and crying at that point. Greg made sure she got into the cab and came back in to find John lacing up his shoes.

"I'm going for a walk," John said.

"I'm sorry," Greg replied.

John nodded and walked to the door, pulling his coat on and going out into the night.

_____

When he made it home three hours later, at half ten, Greg wondered if he was drunk. Greg had left his bedroom door open so he could hear John come in and listened carefully as he went through his evening routine. Greg sighed and rolled onto his side, back to the hallway, when he'd done enough to convince himself that John hadn't been drinking. He would have been able to tell.

He stared at the wall for several minutes until the light from the hallway was interrupted by John's shadow. He just stood there. Greg wondered if he should ignore it, pretend to be asleep.

"You don't have to be sorry," John said, still motionless in the doorway.

Greg breathed deeply and rolled onto his back, flipping the edge of the duvet over in invitation. John reached out and the light in the hallway went off. Greg couldn't even make himself look, afraid if he saw John's back he might choke on a sob and give himself away.

John climbed into bed next to him and wrapped his arm around his waist. 

_____

Greg was aware he was dreaming. Some version of John was on top of him and his hips were rolling and he was whispering something into Greg's mouth. It was difficult to discern at first but the more John moved and the more Greg became aroused, the louder John got. Greg reached up and gripped John's arse, pulling him down and grinding himself against John's prick.

"Harder," John murmured, lips wet and mobile. "Harder. Harder. Harder."

Greg gasped for air and dug his fingers into John's arsecheeks and noticed for the first time, though in a dream things change in a whim, so perhaps it was new, that John was wearing fatigues. He moaned and licked John's neck and shuddered as he wrapped one leg around him at the waist. 

He tasted salt and skin. He smelled sweat and menthol and a woodsy aftershave. He felt strong arms and a muscled back and thighs. He felt caged in. He felt overwhelmed. 

"Harder," John said, breath hot on Greg's lips. 

Greg took one last breath and was coming, God, he was coming. It wouldn't bloody stop. God, he hadn't came so hard before in his life. 

He thrust his hips harder and was suddenly awake, panting and covered in his own sweat with a hand down his pants like a bloody teenager. 

John, oh fuck.

But John wasn't there. Greg heard the shower going and thanked everything holy that the man was currently anywhere but that bed.

He smelled menthol and sweat on the pillow John had used. He smelled cedar and pine on the steam coming from the loo. Fuck.


	11. Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They haven't made their way to a conventional relationship yet, but things are going well for john and Greg. Some might not be too happy about that.

Greg was in the kitchen starting omelettes when John got out of the shower. His hair was sticking up in the back and he had on an old Met morale shirt and his favorite pyjama pants. John wanted to crowd up against him and rest his chin on the man's shoulder. Wanted to kiss his neck. In his mind, there was no way he was turning back.

"Last night was...good of you," he said, barely able to force the words from his throat.

Greg stilled in his chopping onions, but didn't turn, hand tightening on the handle of the knife. "It was hardly a burden."

"Would it be tonight?" John ventured, hands in his pockets and eyes on the ground.

"Absolutely not," Greg replied without hesitation, going back to preparing the food.

"And any other night?" John pressed.

"You can have whatever you want, John," Greg said, meaning 'you can have me'. "If you need comfort...take it."

"I'd always thought I'd marry some motherly woman and have two children and a small house and a dog and...now the thought seems suffocating," John explained, moving closer to press his hand against Greg's lower back. "With you, with you I can breathe."

Greg was formulating an answer that didn't involve the words 'I love you' when John left the room.

_____

It was amazing how quickly things changed between the two. There was still a sort of hesitation when it came to kissing each other on the lips, or anything sexual, but Greg was never one to push. John was happy with him, and he was happy as well, and that was all that mattered. Maybe they just needed to be...platonic life partners. 

John was even more unabashed now in his affection, hands in Greg's hair on the sofa and arms around him every night in bed, and Greg simply had to have a wank in the shower each night before bed to head off anything...untoward...in the night.

One such night, John walked into the loo while he was showering without knocking and Greg had to bite his lip as his hand sped up on his prick.

"We should go to a movie Friday night," John said, brushing his teeth. "There's got to be something good out." 

"Mmm," Greg agreed, not trusting his own voice.

"I should change my pillowcase," John continued. "It's getting disgusting."

Greg leaned against the wall and was a bit dizzy with the fact that even this normal, domestic conversation couldn't stop the arousal flowing through him. It nearly doubled him in half at the next line.

"Could you rub my shoulder tonight?" John asked, relieving himself. "I'm a bit stiff. A little early for rain this year but I wouldn't be surprised if we got some tomorrow."

"Mmm," Greg agreed, fisting himself faster and resting just on the precipice.

"Thanks," John said, flushing and washing his hands. "See you in bed."

Greg found himself coming the second the door clicked closed, seeing stars from such a long while attempting not to breathe roughly and give himself away. He came and closed his eyes and felt tingly all over and admitted, just to himself, that this was as close to perfect as his life had ever been. 

Fuck normal relationships, fuck communication. Fuck fucking. This was all he needed; John trusting him, John pissing while he showered, John admitting he needed to change his bloody pillowcase. He hadn't been that fulfilled before and it made him wonder for a moment what was wrong with him that life without sex was enough.

Nothing, of course, was wrong with Greg. He was simply the sort of person who needed closeness more than anything and had never experienced it like that before. His ex wife had always been hesitant to open up, in all their marriage she'd only spoken of her emotions twice, once at their wedding and once with their solicitor upon their divorce. He had figured that what they lacked in physical and emotional closeness outside the bedroom was made up for inside it. 

He'd been lying to himself. 

He figured if they got married, if he committed to her, that some day she'd open up. It was simply asking her to be a different person.

How strange, then, that John, a man that was so not inclined to speak of his emotions, had somehow shown and told Greg everything he needed to know? They'd cried together and got drunk together and fallen asleep on the sofa and fought and John had shown him his fears and trusted him not to speak them aloud. All his life that was what he wanted; just to hold onto someone's secrets for them.

He washed himself off and got out of the shower, drying and slipping into his pants before grabbing John's balm from the bedroom cabinet and joining the man on their bed. John was reading, shirt already off, and Greg sat behind him.

"Mmm," John said as Greg started to dig his fingers in. "You know, you're the only person besides my physiotherapist that's touched my shoulder."

And there it was; one more secret to hold.

Greg breathed deeply and kissed the scarred mass of an exit wound before opening the pot of balm. John leaned back against him and set the book aside.

_____

Greg had started planning his day out so his lunch coincided with John's. The hospital was just down the street from the Yard so it was little trouble to walk there and sit in the cafeteria together. Sometimes Greg would bring John a sandwich from the place on the corner and sometimes they would brave the food offered to the doctors and nurses.

One day, about a month into their newly formed near-relationship, Greg came in to find John being very obviously chatted up by a blond nurse. To his relief, John looked more than a bit uncomfortable. As Greg walked up he could hear the conversation.

"Were you really in the army?" the woman asked, playing with her hair. "Did you kill lots of people?"

'Wrong bloody question,' Greg thought. John shoulders squared and Greg shouted to him, eager to get him away from the woman. He held up the takeaway bag. "Got chili."

John turned and breathed out a sigh and left the woman standing there without another word. Greg watched her scowl over John's shoulder and carefully wrapped an arm around John to drive the point home. John gripped his waist and they found a seat. The woman was still standing there when they started to eat.

"I see you've found a groupie," Greg said as he held a piece of sourdough bread up for John.

John rolled his eyes and took it, dunking it into his chili. "New nurse."

"She seems keen to hear about your military career," Greg said as he started in on his own food.

"She's the exact type of woman my mother would have wanted me to marry," John said. "So easily impressed and eager to please."

Greg snorted and shook his head. "I'm sure your mother would just want you to be happy."

"I am happy," John said, eyes meeting Greg's. 

"I'm happy, too," Greg said, bowled over by the intensity in John's eyes.

Just out of earshot the new nurse walked up to one of the other nurses, a mainstay called Georgette, and tapped her on the shoulder. Georgette turned and tried to smile at the new nurse.

"Afternoon," Georgette said, smile faltering when she saw where the new nurse was looking.

"John's single, isn't he?" she asked.

"That's his husband," Georgette replied, incorrectly. "He's police."

"I didn't see a ring," the new nurse replied, left eyebrow perking up.

Georgette frowned at her. "Leave Dr Watson alone."

The new nurse turned to her and looked shocked. "What did you say to me?"

Georgette raised her chin and refused to be talked down. "You heard me well. I know you're new here, so I'll let the last comment go, but this is not that type of hospital."

The new nurse gave her a strange smile and walked away, hearing John and Greg laughing and biting into her lip.


	12. Ridiculous Hyperbole

Three weeks later and the new nurse was still following John around. He'd had about enough of it and confronted her just as he was getting off his shift.

"Do I have something on my shirt?" he asked, face grave.

Her eyes grew wide, not aware he had noticed her watching from across the room, and she shook her head. "No, doctor."

"Then why is it that you've got a whole stack of patient files to work on and you're sitting there looking at me?" he asked, the stress from the day bubbling over at her imbecilic behavior.

Her surprise turned to disapproval, it flitting across her face so quickly that some might have missed it. She pretended to stutter. "I...I'm sorry, doctor."

"Don't tell me," John said, standing and grabbing his jacket, "it's the patients you do a disservice to. I'm off."

"I really am sorry," she protested. "Can I buy you a coffee?"

John stopped walking and stood with his back to her, left hand clenching. "Don't waste my time again."

The nurse scowled at his back and promised herself she'd up her game.

_____

John had just made it through the front door when his mobile went off. He looked at the screen and his sour mood lifted immediately.

"Greg," he said, sitting on the sofa and leaning back with a smile. "God, what a day I've had. Where are you?"

"Afraid I'm still at the Yard," Greg replied, voice rough with exhaustion. "Think I'll be here for another four hours. You'll have to do supper without me."

John frowned and moved the phone to his other ear. "How about I make that rice you like and bring some by in...say, an hour?"

"John Watson," Greg sighed, the sound of it making the hairs stand up on the back of John's neck, "you're the most gorgeous human being I've ever met. Bloody angel on earth, you are."

"Stop," John giggled, shifting in his seat.

"Heaven opened up and you walked out on a cloud with jasmine rice and a smile like I'd never seen," Greg continued, now giggling as well.

"Now you're just embarrassing yourself," John replied, cheeks heating.

"Must have died in my sleep," Greg pressed, "and woken up before the pearly gates."

"If you don't stop I'll eat it all by myself!" John interrupted, curling in on himself with laughter.

Greg snorted and scratched the back of his neck. "Christ, you would, wouldn't you?"

"You know it," John replied.

Greg sighed happily. "Fine, I'll stop. Till you get here. Might just have flowers and bloody chocolates."

"You're such a liar," John said. "Get back to work."

"Mmm," Greg hummed, "anything for you."

John huffed a laugh and rang off, leaning back on the sofa and closing his eyes. Greg was such a bastard. He knew what he sounded like. He knew the affect he had on John, he must. Hell, John was barely able to keep it to one lonely wank a day with him pressed up against him in bed and on the sofa, with him kissing his shoulder and tousling his hair. 

John squeezed his burgeoning erection through his trousers before standing and going to the kitchen to start the rice. 

It was just a box dinner, nothing but a seasoning pack and a bit of rice that you added butter to, but he had to admit it was rather good. He measured out the water and put it, along with the butter, into the rice cooker. As he grabbed a fork and stirred in the rice and seasoning packet he thought about how Greg would smile at him when he brought it. Greg's smiles were always a bit too toothy, somewhat crooked, and completely perfect.

With the rice cooker set he left the kitchen and grinned guiltily, knowing what he was about to do wasn't completely above board. He didn't really give a toss, though. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his head as he made his way to Greg's laundry basket and pulled out one of his work shirts. He'd found, innocently enough, that they smelled nearly erotic when he was in the right mindset.

"Oh, this'll be good," he murmured, pulling off his trousers and pants and laying his vest out on the bed.

He positioned the pillow just right and was soon enough on all fours over it with Greg's dirty shirt pressed to his nose. He breathed deeply at the collar and closed his eyes, grunting as he took himself in hand.

He was already half hard, just hearing from Greg and thinking about touching himself getting things going. He fisted his prick loosely and focused on nothing but the smell of Greg. From the base to the head, massaging the foreskin around before stroking back down again. Loose hand not nearly enough pressure for it to do anything but egg him on. 

Slowly, so slowly, his cock got harder, filling out in his fist until the loose stroke he started with was enough to elicit a low groan. He picked up the speed and licked his lips, needing just a bit more before he could get on with it. 

Christ, to be eighteen again and hard at the drop of a hat. What a different world that was. Not that he didn't like this, the waiting, the teasing. It wasn't half bad when he was in their bed with one of Greg's shirts in his hand and twenty minutes on the kitchen timer.

And, God, that was it! Oh, that heat pooling in his belly. Oh, yes, just about time.

He let himself go with a sigh and boxed in the pillow with both arms as he let his prick drag against the bed, over his discarded vest. 

He liked to pretend it was Greg under him, holding the pillow and ignoring the fact that it didn't have nearly enough weight to it. He felt like a teenager again, just figuring out how to touch himself best. What he'd give to be rutting against Greg's skin.

"God, yes," he growled, rolling his hips and feeling the first bit of pre-come well up at the tip of his prick as he pressed over and over again into the bed. "That's it, love. Just like that."

He gripped the pillow tightly and breathed against Greg's shirt and let himself fantasize. 

Greg was under him, face down with his arms above his head, and he was letting John press his cock between his thighs. His skin was hot and the drag was almost painful but John didn't mind a bit. Greg would moan as John thrust against him over and over again, the movements of John's hips driving his cock into the sheets.

"That feel good, gorgeous?" John asked, not waiting for a reply from the empty room. "This is exactly what you wanted, wasn't it? Saying all those sweet things to me over the phone. You just wanted me to surround you. You need me here, don't you?"

His hips moved at a quicker pace as the daydream took form.

"If you can hold off I'll give you my mouth," he said, hips twitching as he tried to hold back a bit more.

He was really thrusting now, chewing on his lip and fucking into the bed as his breath grew rough against Greg's shirt. 

"Want you in my mouth. Fuck. Fuck. Oh. Bloody hell," he sputtered, losing a bit of coherency as he reached below himself to roughly jerk his prick. "I'm gonna, I'm gonna, oh!"

He couldn't really tell the moment he went over. One second he was close, so close, and the next he was coming so hard he could feel his bollocks twitching. He stroked himself through it, short fevered little movements, and then slumped to his side.

He let himself lay there for another ten minutes before getting up to have a quick shower and get rid of the evidence. By then, the rice would be ready.


	13. From The Sidelines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss. And fucking. Because they really need it. And so do you.

John was losing his mind. It was the fifth weekend in a row that it was raining so hard their football in the park had been canceled. He was itching for some sort of release, work being work and all. He was picking at his nails and pacing, looking out the front window at the rain and cursing under his breath. 

Greg found it endearing but knew that soon enough John's frustration would come out in a nonproductive way. Possibly with broken china. Poor bastard. If it came down to that John would be reminded of his father's angry spells, ones that broke more than china, and would hate himself for nearly a week. 

He knew he had to intervene.

Greg walked over and took the mug of tea resting on the windowsill into the kitchen, fearing for its safety. "Right, we're going out for a pint tonight. We can watch the Newcastle match."

John sagged and ran a hand through his hair. "And spend three hours plus jealous of those useless bastards?"

"Oi!" Greg said teasingly. "They've had a good run this season. Besides, you can scream your lungs out against Rooney."

"Christ, I forgot they're playing Man U," John said, going to sit on the sofa for a moment before hopping back up.

"Get your trainers on," Greg said, going to change. "We're going for a run in the rain."

John nodded brusquely and joined him, changing into his track suit and pulling on rain covers. "If we all had proper boots we could play in rain like this."

"Yeah," Greg conceded, "but most of the constables don't have £300 banging about."

"What we should really be looking for is a proper pitch. We live in the bloody Land of Rain, we should have a proper pitch."

"No disagreement here. Come on," Greg said, clapping John on the back and heading to the sitting room to get on his trainers.

John followed and they were soon enough out and in the torrential stuff, hoods pulled tight and heads down.

"I take it work was shite this week," Greg said, nearly shouting to be heard over the deluge.

"More flu than anything else. People refusing to get their flu shot because they're afraid it'll make them sick, then coming in to demand we do something about their miserable state. Makes me hate people. Not a good position for a GP," John admitted.

"Everyone feels like that from time to time," Greg replied. "D'you have any idea how many stupid people I run into? Lad got his head stuck in a fence the other day and called us up. It was such a slow day that we actually sent one of the constables out with a saw."

"Not Merrit!" John shouted, referring to the youngest of the bunch and his penchant for spilling coffee and papers in his wake.

Greg chuckled and shook his head, rainwater flying everywhere. "God, no. Parish went. She used to be a carpenter."

They made their way around the corner of the block that the park was on and John pulled on Greg's arm so they could rest under the bus overhang.

"Out of breath already, Watson?" Greg teased, leaning with his hands on his knees.

"You are, too," John shot back.

Greg chuckled and stretched. "Perhaps a bit. Need to add a bit more vigorous activity to my lifestyle."

John tried not to grin and ran back out into the rain.

_____

By the time they got home John was feeling better, laughing at Greg's stupid jokes and jogging in place as he opened the front door.

"Remind me why we don't go for a run everyday," John said as he stripped his rain covers off on the front porch.

Greg grinned at him and reached up to rub a raindrop from his left eyebrow. "Because we're lazy bastards."

"Oh, yeah," John said slipping off his trainers and going to collapse on the sofa with a grunt, "I almost forgot. Go shower and wash your disgusting feet and I'll give you a massage."

Greg rolled his eyes but tossed his clothes in the laundry basket and stepped into the tub. As he turned on the water he heard the telly switch on. News, or something. He thought again, for perhaps the millionth time, how utterly happy he was. He scrubbed himself off quickly and dried before heading out to the sofa and laying with his feet in John's lap.

"You're feet are ridiculously hairy," John teased as he dug his thumbs into the sore heels.

"Yours are just as bad," Greg protested. "Just cause you're blond doesn't mean you aren't hairy."

They teased each other constantly, complaining about things they didn't really care about, for hours as the rain came down outside and the telly droned on, unnoticed.

_____

They were on their fourth pint, perhaps foolishly, that night when Rooney made a 30 yard shot and the room went wild. John let his head fall to the table and Greg laughed hysterically next to him.

"Bloody Rooney!" John shouted, sitting back and letting Greg stuff a chip in his mouth.

"You're a bloody mess," Greg said, drinking down the rest of his pint as the match drew to a close on the telly.

"It's over," John said, "can we leave now?"

Greg grinned at him and nodded towards the door. He followed John out and stood next to him under the overhang for a moment before he realised he'd have to call them a cab. 

"Bloody rain," John grumbled, leaning against Greg. "Bloody Rooney."

"Admit it," Greg said, lifting his mobile to his ear, "you sort of fancy him."

John looked horrified and Greg snorted as the phone line rang. "You do. I bet you've got a half chub right now."

John protested loudly but Greg didn't hear it as he was talking to the dispatcher. When he finally rang off John pulled his hand down and pressed it to the front of his denims. Greg drew in a deep breath and sputtered in response. John was, surprisingly really as Greg had been joking, rather aroused.

"That's nothing to do with that potato-headed bastard," John said, raising an eyebrow.

Greg's voice came out strained as he let his hand stay there a bit longer before pulling it away. "No? What...uh, what has it to do with, then?"

"The company," John said, leaning back against the wall and grinning up at the sky.

"John," Greg said, really just a breath out.

"Yeah, well, cat's out of the bag," John chuckled.

Greg was about to reply when a woman that had been eyeing them in the pub walked up and held her hand out to John.

"Good to see you again, doctor," she said, the lack of crowd and distance revealing that she was the nurse who kept hitting on John at work.

Greg felt himself stand a bit taller as his stomach roiled.

"Mary," John said, nodding at her but refusing her hand.

"I've been meaning to ask," she said, pretending the move didn't affect her, "if you're single."

John laughed loudly and looked over at Greg, his eyes sparkling. "What do you say, Greg? Am I single?"

Greg's jaw clenched and he was finally, finally, spurred into action. He pressed John firmly against the wall and kissed him roughly, not a fucking care about the taste of cheap beer and chips on his tongue, and did something his mother would be ashamed over by giving the nurse a two fingered salute.

John growled and gripped him by the arse, careening directly into public indecency territory and not giving a toss. 

The honk from the cab was the only thing that pulled them apart. They were out of breath and giggling as they spilled into the cab. The cabbie let them know she'd have none of that on the drive home and they simply laughed louder.

"So we're dating, is that it?" John asked, leaning back against the door.

"Guess so," Greg replied. "Can't have that woman taking what's-"

"Yours?" John said, eyebrow raising.

Greg shrugged and John rested a hand on his thigh. "I am, you know. No avoiding it."

_____

When they made it through the front door they were back to kissing, John barely able to take a breath before Greg was pulling him to the bedroom, stripping him on the way.

"God, yes," John groaned as he was pushed back onto the bed.

"You bloody tease," Greg said, pulling John's denims off and running his hands up under the edges of his pants.

"Took you long enough to figure it out," John said pulling at Greg's jumper.

"Yeah, well, too good to be true and that," Greg said, shucking the rest of his clothes and climbing on top of John. "God knows you put me on the spot tonight."

John quickly flipped them over and leaned down to lick up Greg's neck, nibbling the skin and rolling his hips. "You're gorgeous when you're riled up," he said, smiling at Greg and biting his lip.

"You're always gorgeous," Greg replied, pulling John back in for a kiss and wrapping his arms around his waist.

John hummed into his mouth, shifting to kiss Greg's neck and jaw. It was rough with stubble and Greg tilted his head to the side to give John better access. John leaned in close and breathed in against his neck, moaning at the smell.

"Like that, huh?" Greg asked, running his hands up and down John's back.

"You've no idea," John said. "Wanted you for so long." He nosed along Greg's chin before tipping it down to kiss his lips.

"Christ," Greg moaned feeling John's cock pressed up against his, separated by thin layers of fabric. "John-"

"I won't regret this in the morning," John interrupted, gripping Greg's rain-damp hair before sliding down his body.

Greg was out of breath, all the times before when he'd felt aroused by John paled in comparison to having John's hands on him. He couldn't find words and finally gave up, simply moaning as John pulled his pants down and licked up his bollocks to suck at the base of his prick.

"Thought you were always the one in control," Greg chuckled nervously, slightly frightened by how intensely his body was reacting.

John sat up a bit, rolling Greg's bollocks in his hand and then pulling on them for emphasis. "If you think having a bloke's cock in your mouth makes them the one in control, you might want to think again."

"Point taken," Greg sighed, shifting his hips. 

"Tell me what you want," John said, tonguing the crease between groin and thigh.

"I-I God, I don't know," Greg admitted, the words spilling out of him. He wasn't used to being confused as to his role like this, the several times he'd been with men he was always the one directing things.

"My mouth or my hand," John clarified, crawling to the edge of the bed to get a pair of condoms and some lube.

"M-mouth," Greg sputtered.

The breath was sucked from his lungs when John fumbled open a condom and rolled it down his prick. He ran his fingers through John's hair and made a strange whining noise in the back of his throat as John engulfed his cock in tight warmth. John bobbed his head, licking up and down Greg's prick to ease the friction and Greg only managed to voice one thought.

"Bloody hell, that's good," he said, voice pitched higher than usual.

John hummed around him and Greg gripped his hair and threw his head back. He hadn't had sex in two years and hadn't been sucked off in...Jesus, he really couldn't remember at that point. More than four years, for sure. He loved fucking but there was something otherworldly about getting sucked off. It was overwhelming.

John rolled his bollocks and sucked harder, pressing down as far as he could and gagging slightly. The constriction it caused had Greg seeing stars. John pulled off for a second and looked up at him, stroking Greg's cock and squeezing the sensitive head.

"I want you to come in my mouth," he said, Greg's prick twitching in his hand. "And then I want to fuck your thighs."

Greg nodded and closed his eyes, much closer than he had any right to be.

"Yeah?" John asked.

"Yeah, yes, yes," Greg replied, letting his hips rise off the bed.

"Good," John said, suddenly feeling a bit dizzy at the prospect.

Greg grunted as John pushed his hips back down onto the bed and took his cock in his mouth again. That heat, God, that heat. 

He opened his eyes and raised his head to see his prick disappearing into John's mouth. John's eyes found his and he rubbed along Greg's perineum, knuckles pressing into the back of his bollocks as John swallowed around the head and tightened his lips.

"My god," Greg whispered, eyes tearing up from his refusal to blink.

John hummed and pulled his bollocks and used his other hand to fist his cock at the shaft while he focused that probing tongue at the head, circling and pushing and circling again.

He felt himself starting to come and couldn't keep his eyes open, head falling back onto the bed as his toes curled and his hands fisted the bedsheets. John continued to stroke him and tightened his lips just below the head as Greg filled the condom. When he finally pulled off Greg was whimpering and felt he might pass out.

"Perfect," John said, pulling the condom off and tying it before tossing it in the bin next to the bed. "My turn."

Greg pulled him up for a kiss before letting John rearrange him on his stomach. He hissed when he felt cold lube trickle between his upper thighs and John apologized before rubbing it in.

"You smell good," John said, the blandness of the comment being eclipsed by the sound he made after breathing at Greg's neck again.

"God, John," Greg murmured as he panicked slightly at the press of John's cock to his upper thighs.

John paused and ran a hand up and down his back. "Just here," he said. "Just between your thighs. That okay?"

"Yeah," Greg said, nodding. "Just thought for a minute that you might-"

"Not a chance," John said, pressing the head of his prick between Greg's slick thighs. "Unless you want that, it's not on the table."

"No...this is, this is good," Greg said, face buried in the pillow. "Go on, then."

"Pushy," John chuckled, thrusting and moaning against Greg's shoulder.

"That's it," Greg murmured, flexing his thighs. "Go ahead and think about it if you want. I know you want to fuck my arse."

"Jesus, Greg," John spat, hips twitching.

"It's okay to think about. My arse tight around you," Greg pressed. "Never done that before. You'd be the first."

John sped up his thrusts and wondered at the thrill that sent through him.

"Tell me how you'd take me," Greg added.

"Jesus, not like this. I'd have you on your back. Watch your face as I sink into you," John said. "I'd barely fit."

"Yeah, right you are," Greg chuckled. 

"Wrap your legs around my waist and kiss you while I pressed into you," John added, breath growing ragged.

"Keep going," Greg said, rolling his hips along with John. 

"Fuck. You'd be so hot. So bloody hot around me," John grunted, hips slapping against Greg's arse loudly.

"You want it hard?" Greg asked, finding himself, although not hard in the least, hugely aroused by this little exercise.

"Fuck yes. Jesus," John panted. "Wanna fuck you so hard."

"Wanna come in my arse, Captian? Wanna fill me up?" Greg pressed, aware that John was closing in on orgasm.

"Jesus, Greg, Jesus, yes. Come in your arse. Come in you. Wanna fucking come in you. Want to...want to...oh, fuck!"

And with that John was coming hard, mouth open against the back of Greg's neck as he continued to hump him like a bloody animal in heat. His hips finally slowed and he slumped to the side, gripping Greg's arsecheek and slapping it.

Greg laughed and rolled onto his back, frowning slightly at the stickiness between his thighs before grinning at the debauched sight of John on his back with his mouth open and a hand around his softening prick.

"What are you looking at?" John asked, eyes opening a bit and grin spreading across his lips.

"You're gorgeous when you're riled up," Greg said.

"I'm in love with you," John admitted. 

Greg was silent for a moment as he smoothed a hand over John's stomach and up to his chest. It was a moment John felt like dying in.

"I've loved you for years," Greg finally whispered. "But Christ, if it isn't unbearable now."

"Years?" John asked, smile returning.

"From the sidelines," Greg whispered. "Always from the sidelines."

"Well," John said, pulling Greg into his arms, "not anymore."


	14. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Pancakes and a movie. Utter domestic fluff.

The next morning Greg woke before John for once, watching the man sleep and going over the night in his head. It still didn't seem real.

He ran his hands through John's hair and sighed as John's lips parted and he butted his hand softly. John always looked so much younger, so much less cynical when he was asleep. His eyelashes fluttered and he stretched, back rising off the bed.

"You watching me sleep?" John asked, mouth dry and awful tasting.

Greg rubbed his thumbs across John's bottom lip and then leaned in to kiss him, sucking gently as John sighed, before pulling away. John grinned and stretched again and followed Greg to the loo.

"Was thinking I'd make us pancakes," Greg said as he brushed his teeth, the comfortable nudity making it look to an outsider like they'd been together for years.

"Sounds fantastic," John said, spitting and rinsing his mouth and then gripping Greg's arse in both hands.

"Jesus," Greg said, almost forgetting how incredible John's hands could feel, gripping the edge of the sink and looking at John through the mirror.

"Always wanted to do that," John said with a wink.

"Oh, you dirty bastard," Greg growled, turning on John and pushing him back against the wall.

"Remember what happened last time you tried to spar with me?" John asked, raising an eyebrow and deftly reversing their places, pressing Greg face first into the wall.

"Shut your mouth," Greg shot back, lips pulling back in a predatory grin. "You know you want me to resist."

John chuckled and pressed up on his toes so his naked cock slipped between Greg's legs. "Such cheek from someone in such a delicate position."

Greg got his left arm free and surprised John by placing it above his own head. John took a small step back and pressed Greg's other arm up with it. He pushed his foot between Greg's and forced him to widen his stance, the move leaving John's cock nestled perfectly up against Greg's perineum. His cock was hard now, the head poking the back of Greg's bollocks as he started to roll his hips.

"This how it's done, then?" John asked, hands running down Greg's sides to his hips as he acted out one of his own bloody fantasies. "Up against the wall and spread 'em?"

"You keep running your mouth and you're pressing your luck," Greg said, letting out a small sound as John gripped his hips roughly. 

"Want to know what I'd really like?" John asked, letting his prick push against the back of Greg's bollocks with every slow thrust of his hips.

"Fuck, John," Greg said, unable to really respond.

"I'd really like you get into the shower with me. I want to get you off with my hand," John said, leaning in. "But I can't have you struggle in there. Won't be explaining injuries to my coworkers on my day off."

Greg thrust his hips back and nodded. "No fooling around. Got it."

John pulled away and turned the taps on, waiting for the water to get hot before stepping into the shower.

"Come on," he said, nodding to Greg.

Greg stepped in behind John and took his chance at an arse grab, squeezing John's cheeks until the man batted him away. He grabbed the body gel and poured some onto a flannel before rubbing it up and down John's back and scrubbing under his arms.

"I thought I was gonna get you off," John said, leaning against the wall and letting Greg clean him properly.

"You won't have the strength to clean once we're done," Greg replied, reaching down to stroke John's cock with a soapy hand. "So I figured we'd get it out of the way."

"Such big talk," John teased, closing his eyes.

Greg snorted. "You slept like a bloody rock last night, and all it took was talking about my arse."

"Mmm. Imagine how out of it I'd be if you let me actually fuck it," John returned.

"In your wildest dreams, Watson," Greg said, massaging John's shoulder with the flannel.

"Amongst other things," John agreed, turning around and pulling Greg closer.

"Tell me about those other things," Greg said, eyelids falling as John took his cock in hand.

"Eventually," John said.

Greg let himself relax as John stroked him from root to tip. He had bloody talented hands and Greg keened at the way his bollocks were being played with. He was so overwhelmed by it that he almost missed the question John posed.

"You said you've been in love with me for years..." John said, unsure of himself. "Did you mean it?"

"Course I bloody meant it," Greg said, no heat behind it. "How the hell could I not fall in love with you? You're gorgeous and grumpy and you never seem to notice that you aren't the biggest thing in the bloody room."

John laughed and gripped Greg around the waist, pulling him forward so they could rut against each other. "That's almost a compliment."

Greg wrapped his arms around John's neck and looked him in the eyes. "You know what I mean. You're just...you're not afraid of anything. You're stupidly confident."

"Once again," John said, rising on his toes to press their lips together.

Greg hummed and frotted against John. When they pulled apart they were both gasping.

"You hate when people say you're brave," Greg said, panting against John's mouth as their kisses grew more fevered, "but you know it's true."

"I'm not that brave," John replied, hands digging into Greg's buttocks.

"See? You always do that. How can you be the cockiest fucker I know and still be so humble?" Greg asked, out of breath and close to orgasm. "I'd bloody hate you if I didn't love you so much."

"You mean it," John said, stunned somehow by the fact that Greg was really in love with him. 

Greg kissed him again and reached between them to take both their pricks in hand and stroke them. The sudden pressure had John shaking and soon enough he was cursing and coming. When he'd finished he took Greg back in hand and pushed him over the edge with a few tight strokes and a finger rubbing right behind his bollocks.

They finally slumped against the wall together, out of breath, and John started to giggle.

"What so funny?" Greg asked.

"I'm too tired to wash myself," John admitted.

Greg snorted and ran a hand into John's hair. "I told you."

John rolled his eyes and let Greg clean himself off as he stayed to the side of the spray. By the time Greg was done he was feeling a bit less like his legs were made of cooked spaghetti.

"Do your hair," Greg said, kissing him on the lips in what he was attempting to be chaste but held a lot more emotion. "I'll..I'll start pancakes."

John watched him go, chest tight and breath slightly off. It was strange to be able to admit to himself that he was in love with Greg, strange that he felt like he was allowed it. He knew he had been for quite some time, but he never let himself think on it, pushing it away as soon at the sentiment arose. Maybe he wasn't ready then. 

It was liberating, made it stop seeming perverse. He'd been telling himself that he shouldn't act the way he was acting, that they were just friends. He knew that he was crossing a line by being so physically affectionate but he told himself as long as they didn't actually get each other off, it was still friendship. 

Bullshit. 

It might have started as friendship but it wasn't even as he'd moved in. By that point he thought, they had both wanted more.

He washed and rinsed his hair and dried off before going to the bedroom to put on his favorite pair of denims and his red shirt. He wanted to look good, stupid as that might seem. He parted his hair in the mirror above the dresser and refused to look himself in the eye, feeling like he was preparing for a date in his socked feet.

"Almost ready," Greg shouted from the kitchen.

John walked in and found himself immediately stepping up behind Greg to run a hand up his back, under the hem of his t-shirt. Greg shifted and hummed, plating the last of the pancakes and turning to pull John into a kiss.

That was probably the point at which a normal new couple would have professed, again, their attraction to each other. John was thankful that they had an understanding of each other, already feeling a bit drained by the emotional honesty of the morning. And yeah, he hadn't been the one saying all the things that were said, but he'd never been good at any of this, now had he?

They ate in comfortable silence, John's toes finding their way up under Greg's trouser legs and rubbing against his ankles like they always did, and after they were done they settled onto the sofa.

"Saved Captain America," Greg said. "You up for some unabashed American propaganda?"

John snorted and bumped Greg's shoulder until the man moved down the sofa a bit so John could wrap an arm around him. "You know it."

Greg turned on the telly and started the movie, setting the remote aside and resting his head on John. For how much they'd switched roles over the last months, he always felt like John was more comfortable with this one. Big man taking care of his boyfriend. It was a damn good thing because Greg was hesitant to bottom in bed, but he was always the caretaker in the relationship.

He hadn't been exaggerating about how much he loved that John always acted like the biggest thing in the room. Sometimes he would watch John and think how utterly relieved he'd feel to be in his arms. Now that he was, he knew it was true.

The feeling grew to its peak when they'd had the Hound case and he'd seen John take a man down with a pistol like it was nothing. He wouldn't mention it, of course, but that was the moment he knew he'd never get over John, illegal hand gun or no. He was so in control, so utterly powerful, that Greg realised that John's confidence was well justified. He definitely was the crack shot Sherlock had once said he was.

'I feel safe in your arms,' he wanted to say. 

But this, this was enough.


	15. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is going to propose to Greg. John knows it. Greg knows it. Sally knows it.

It was horrible, even from the start. Greg thought that once it grew out a bit it would look less like...like a...

"He looks like a booking photo," Sally said, standing next to Greg at the Yard Christmas party as John spoke with the DI.

"Really don't need your opinion on this," Greg said, taking another sip of wine.

She snorted and leaned against the wall. "Surely, you'll tell him."

"He'll get bored and shave it off," Greg replied. "He says it itches."

"I bet it does," Sally said, hips shifting as if something in her pants was bothering her, and tongue in her cheek.

"You're awful," he said.

She shook her head and took a bite of one of the mini pizza's she'd picked up from the buffet (the Met at its most chic), not waiting to swallow before speaking. "That mustache it awful."

John clapped the DI on the back and walked towards them from across the room. Greg took a moment to wave at him before leaning in to speak to Sally, under his breath.

"You tell him it's awful and I'll dock your pay," he said.

She grinned at John and replied to Greg just as quietly. "You know you can't actually do that."

John finally made it to them and leaned over to kiss Greg on the cheek before nodding to Sally.

"I like the mustache, John," she said, best fake smile on.

Thank god John had already had a glass of champagne, because instead of noting the lie he just smiled and puffed out his chest a bit, hand going up to it.

"Just trying something out," he said.

"I think it's a good look on you," Sally added. "Very distinguished."

Greg kicked her ankle but it was too late, he could see what the comment did to John, see the way he preened under it.

_____

When they got home John was still standing a bit taller. They barely made it through the front door before he was pushing Greg onto the sofa and climbing into his lap.

"Christ," Greg said, gripping John's arse. "What's got into you?"

"Nothing," John said, licking his lips and running a hand over his mustache. 

Greg chuckled and pulled him in for a rough kiss. 

When John pulled back he was grinning. "Did you know Sean Connery has a mustache?"

"No, I didn't," Greg replied, barely managing not to giggle.

"Me and Bond," John said, waggling his eyebrows. "Distinguished men."

_____

Even though it had started out facetiously, that party was the beginning of a real friendship between John and Sally. Who, after all, knew Greg better?

That was how, several months later, John popped the question to Sally over coffee at the Yard.

"I'm thinking about proposing to Greg," he said, "and I was wondering if you'd assist me."

"Really?" Sally said, eyes wide with excitement. "Of bloody course!"

"You don't...you don't think it's too soon?" John asked, once again panicking, not because he didn't want to do it, but because he didn't want to do it WRONG.

"I think it's perfect, John," she said, resting a hand over his. "You make him so happy."

And she meant it. She absolutely meant it.

_____

Greg knew John was going to propose. It was painfully obvious. They'd been dating, actually dating, for six months at that point and Greg had caught John in an intense conversation with Sally about whether something was 'too soon'. John had looked panicked. Greg had left as soon as he had heard them talking and had walked all the way home before he realised what he was doing.

The thought of marrying John had that affect on him; the whole world disappearing and him bouncing along without a thought.

Now it was just a matter of waiting and dealing with John while the man drove himself silently insane. He would stare off into space for long minutes before coming back to himself and kissing Greg, sometimes coming from across the house to do so.

"It's not that I don't want my sister to meet you," John said one morning over breakfast, apropos of nothing, "it's that I don't want you to meet her."

"I'll have to at some point," Greg said, and then, as John's eyebrows appeared to become one, "but I know it's stressful for you."

John looked down into his tea and closed his eyes. "She's unpredictable. I don't want her to...scare you off."

Greg snorted and sat back. "Nothing is scaring me off. You've got to know that by now."

When John looked back up at him it was with a mixture of sadness and hope. It broke Greg's heart.

"We should go out to dinner this week," John said softly, chewing his lip and pulling at the collar of his shirt.

Greg's stomach flipped and he nodded clumsily before speaking. "Sure. When?"

"Friday night. Someplace nice," John replied.

Greg nodded again and glanced down into his mug. "What about the Italian place we went to after Christmas?"

"Nicer," John said, now picking at his nails and looking ridiculously stressed out. "I'll think about it. Make sure you aren't busy."

"John," Greg said, reaching to take one of John's hands in his, "I'm never busy."

"Unless there's a killer," John said under his breath.

In the last, Christ, two years, they'd only had seven murders, none of which were connected. Crime had been going down steadily every year and, although the last seven years had a host of real lunatics, serial murders were few and far between.

"You forget that I can see into the future," Greg said, eyebrows raised dramatically. "Give me your tea."

John tried to glare at Greg but the man wouldn't give it up. He pushed his nearly empty mug across the table. Greg took it and upended it into the saucer.

"Speak to me, oh great spirits. Ah, yes," Greg said, looking at the dregs, "this week looks slow. Not a murder in sight, not even an armed robbery."

"Stupid," John said.

Greg looked back into the saucer and sucked his teeth. "Nope. The spirits tell me you find me charming."

John laughed and Greg winked at him. 

_____

John was going to propose. It was the right time. Greg was the love of his life and he was as comfortable and happy as he would ever be. There was no reason to wait. 

John figured that when he finally settled down that would be exactly what it was; settling. He thought he would get to a point in his life where he would actively look for a life partner and give up on other possibilities. That was, he was finding out, complete bollocks.

He was overwhelmed. He was consumed. He was Greg's, completely, wholly, and without question. He wasn't settling down, this was just where he was meant to be. He'd only ever been close to this sure of something, and that had ended quite abruptly. Quite.

But, yes, he was sure. He and Greg were a unit. He'd never felt so tall standing next to someone, so completely whole. He knew, when he stood next to Greg, that he was the only person that fit in that space, that he was the only one Greg would want to stand there.

So, yes, John was going to propose.

_____

Friday came soon enough and, just as his all seeing spirits had predicted, Greg didn't have a tough case that would keep him at work any longer than five. By half four he was twitching in his seat and making a terrible clicking sound with his pen.

"That's really annoying," Sally said, Greg only hearing her the second time she said it.

"Oh, sorry...didn't realise-" Greg tried, swallowing roughly.

"It'll go fine," she soothed, smiling softly at him. 

Greg wasn't sure if he was meant to act like he didn't know.

"Greg," Sally said, catching his attention again.

His head snapped up. "Hmm?"

"You're perfect together. It's horrible. You even look perfect together, mustache aside," she said, still smiling.

Greg smiled back and Sally rolled her eyes and went back to her paperwork.

_____

"Can you help me with this thing. Driving me bloody mad," John said, hands at his sides and tie crumpled in its fight for dominance.

Greg chuckled and stepped up behind him. "That won't do. What about the red one?"

"Mmm," John agreed, closing his eyes as Greg went to get it from the closet and shivering a bit when he felt Greg pull the other tie off.

"I love you," Greg said, kissing his neck before doing up the tie.

"I love you, too," John replied, all the stress melting away as Greg massaged his shoulders.

"You know," Greg said, kissing John's neck again, "we could always get Chinese takeaway."

"We can't," John replied. "I've made reservations. It's supposed to be-I've made reservations."

Greg moved to face John, adjusting the tie before looking him in the eyes. "John, I'm telling you we could get takeaway."

John's nose twitched for a second and then he pulled Greg close, licking into his mouth and gripping the back of his neck tightly. When he drew away he was smiling and shaking his head.

"You know," he said, sighing and grinning wider.

"Might have an inkling," Greg replied, kissing John's neck again.

"Did Sally say?"

Greg stepped back to reassure him. "Not a word."

"I want candlelight," John said with a happy sigh. "I want candles and champagne. I want you to say yes in front of everyone."

Greg bit his lip, afraid of the words that might come pouring out, and nodded, tears in his eyes.

"So let's go," John said, squeezing his arm.

Greg nodded again and John gripped the back of his neck one more time, drawing him in and resting his forehead against Greg's.

"I can't live without you. You know that, right? I can't be without you," John murmured, feeling his chest expand with all the love built up inside him.

"I know," Greg replied, voice tight. "God, how I love you."

John went up on his toes and kissed Greg's forehead and went to get their coats.

_____

Dinner was fantastic, their food cooked to perfection and the wine rich. John was playing with Greg's hand, wiggling his ring finger and smiling at him. They were both a bit tipsy and Greg giggled as he ran his foot up the inside of John's trouser leg and John let out an inadvertent moan. 

"You naughty man," Greg teased, taking his hand back. "I'm off to the loo. Get yourself under control by the time I come back."

"Do my best," John said, cheeks rosy, holding his hand up for the waiter.

Greg found himself to the fancy loo and relieved himself of the half bottle of wine he'd consumed, humming the whole while. Tonight. Tonight was the beginning of the rest of his life. It hit him suddenly that John was going to propose when he got back to the table. For a second his legs wouldn't work. When he finally got control of them back he washed his hands and dried them, tipping the attendant a ridiculous amount, and walked back out to the dining room.

He was watching John from across the room, once again unable to see anything else, when John stood. There was something in the tightness of his shoulders that was wrong. Yes, just there, and the tremor that went through him.

Greg broke into a jog, making his way around a tall pillar just in time to see who John was talking to. 

But that...that couldn't be. 

He ran faster, mumbling to himself and surely in shock. "You've got to be bloody kidding me."

He made it to John's side just as John had launched himself forward, tackling the other man to the ground. John got in one good punch before Greg dragged him off.

"John, stop," he said, holding John back as the room seemed to spin.

"He's..." John said before jackknifing in Greg's arms and trying to go at him again.

The last thing he heard as he pulled John from the restaurant was a confused, "what are you doing here, Lestrade?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...you've made it this far and realised that this story is NOT WHAT YOU THINK. Please, for the love of God, don't give anything away to anyone. I promise you will get your happy ending. I won't do you wrong.


	16. Not On

"He's back, he's, he's not-" John wheezed, shaking in Greg's arms.

Greg rubbed John's biceps and tried to get his attention. "Breathe. I'm right here. We'll figure him out in a bit, yeah?"

"I can't, Greg, I can't," John spat. "I have to know why."

"It's okay. He'll tell us. Just breathe and try to focus. Do you want to talk to him now?" Greg asked.

At that very moment Sherlock was ushered, rather violently, from the building, ending up bent in half next to Greg and John, gripping his nose in an expensive napkin. Greg held John still as he tried to move towards him.

"Take a short walk," Greg said, noting the tension rising in John. "I'm gonna have a talk with him."

"Don't, don't you bloody let him leave, Greg, don't," John hissed.

Sherlock looked over just as Greg kissed him on the lips and turned him towards the alley. Greg caught Sherlock's eye as John walked into the shadow of the building.

"I didn't know you-" Sherlock tried, as John turned the corner.

"You bastard," Greg said, chuckling and bringing Sherlock into a tight hug.

Sherlock winced and pulled away as soon as Greg was done. "You, you aren't angry?"

Greg squeezed Sherlock's shoulders and grinned at him. "Of course I'm angry, you idiot! I'd have to be mad not to be! But Christ, Sherlock, you're here."

Sherlock cleared his throat and stood a bit taller, seeming more like himself.

"He's gonna bloody skin you, though. Has every right to, I might add," Greg said, raising his eyebrows and nodding in the direction John had left in. "You broke his heart."

"And you picked up the pieces," Sherlock replied bitterly.

"Watch your tone. Watch your bloody tone," Greg said, straightening Sherlock's suit coat and spitting in the napkin to try to clean some of the dried blood off. Sherlock had the sense to keep his mouth shut. "We were alone. That wasn't our fault. You mention us like that to John and I'm not sure I'll have the inclination to hold him back."

Sherlock frowned as Greg cleaned him up. "I didn't know you two were...its just a shock."

"Yeah, that's the real shocker from tonight," Greg said flatly, "not the dead rising."

"Perhaps it was a bit..." Sherlock tried.

Greg clapped him on the shoulder and chewed his lip, his eyes holding something Sherlock couldn't quite parse. "What on earth were you thinking?"

"I thought he'd be happy to see me," Sherlock admitted, shrinking back as Greg took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and tapped two out.

"Here," Greg said, handing one to Sherlock and lighting his own before passing the lighter over.

"Does John know you're smoking again?" Sherlock asked, lighting the cigarette and letting his eyes close as he took the first long drag.

"First one," Greg said, licking his lips. "He'll know soon enough."

Sherlock took a shuddering breath, misunderstanding and imagining John's tongue running across Greg's. He was surprised by how much the thought hurt. Thoughts shouldn't have the power to hurt that much.

"So...you two are serious?" he asked, his lips back on the cigarette and pulling at it before he could add a pithy remark.

"Yes," Greg said. "I can't believe that your brother didn't mention it. I mean, you two have been in contact, right, wherever you were."

"He said John may have moved on. I imagined someone like Sarah, to be honest," Sherlock admitted, always perturbed by how honest he was when in private with Greg.

Greg took another drag of his cigarette and let the smoke out through his nose before speaking, thinking all the while how absolutely fucked up they were going to be. "So you thought you'd crash the date and run off with him."

Sherlock looked to the ground. Of course that was what he had thought. When hadn't that worked in the past? John had always left with him, always. All he had to do was show up...

He nearly choked on a sob when he remembered being left in the middle of the restaurant. He had thought Greg would take John home and he'd have to wait an unknown amount of time to see him again.

"What happened out there?" Greg asked, watching as Sherlock leaned with his back against the wall and winced again. It was obvious Sherlock was in a great amount of pain. He wanted to see what was lurking under his suit, sure that he was bloody in places.

"I was captured," Sherlock admitted, because what was the point now, with everything he'd wanted gone.

"For Christ's sake," John shouted, coming around the corner to find the two of them smoking.

Greg tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the toe of his shoe as John came up next to him and stood with his hands balled into fists. It was hard not to put an arm around John, but he knew everyone there was fragile right then. Sherlock, perhaps, most of them all.

"So," John said, staring pointedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock was at a loss. The whole plan was one of showmanship and intrigue and now he felt hollowed out. He couldn't even fake the kind of confidence it took to explain things in a way that made it sound like he was proud of himself.

"Are you going to tell me why?" John asked, voice sharp.

Greg's hand went up to his back and rubbed circles, trying to soothe the man.

"I have a feeling nothing I can say would appease you," Sherlock said, going for aloof and tossing his own cigarette down.

"Sherlock," Greg said, taking a step forward.

He'd seen Sherlock do this a million times before, the mask coming down as he pretended not to care, but he'd never seen it around John. John was the one person he was regularly honest with, the one person Sherlock actually cared to impress.

That was the issue, though, wasn't it?

He knew that his, tone deaf, attempt at impressive had gone horribly wrong and he refused to meet John halfway. Better to have John angry than to seem pathetic in his eyes.

Sherlock looked at Greg and for a second there was something there in his eyes, something so broken, but then it was gone.

"We're heading home," Greg said, holding his hand out for a cab. Sherlock's head fell and Greg cleared his throat. "You're coming with. We have a guest room."

John pulled Greg aside and Sherlock watched them carefully.

"You've got to be joking," John hissed, face twisted. 

"You want him to go back to Baker Street alone? Or to Mycroft's?" Greg asked. "I know you're angry, but please don't push him away right now. Something's not on."

John's face softened at that and he shifted to make sure Sherlock couldn't read his lips. "What do you mean?"

"I think he's hurt," Greg said, ducking his head, "I think...I think he was tortured."

John's face went ashen, everything slackening as he swallowed and looked off into the mid distance. He nodded once and took a step back, hands going into his pockets.

"I don't need a place to stay," Sherlock said, finally seeing how horribly this could all end and looking around like a cornered animal.

"At least let me make you a grilled cheese," Greg said, inadvertently reminding Sherlock of the time he'd spent at Greg's old apartment detoxing.

It should have been a bad memory, and yes, it was tinged with revulsion, but it was overwhelmingly warm. Sentimentally warm. Sherlock actually sagged a bit instead of becoming more confrontational and Greg managed to get the lot of them into a cab and on their way.

John took his hand halfway there and Greg held it tightly as he looked out the window at the passing streets.


	17. Home

It was tense on the ride home, the three men pressed thigh to thigh in the back seat of the cab with barely a hair's breadth between them. Every time they went around a corner or over a bump Sherlock hissed, a sound heard by everyone in the cab, due to the oppressive silence they couldn't seem to crawl their way out of. Even the cabbie seemed to find the situation uncomfortable, switching the radio on and watching them every now and then through the rear view.

It was difficult for John to breathe normally, what with the shock of finding out his best friend hadn't died several years before and the heat coming from said friend's thigh. 

And the way Sherlock smelled. 

He smelled of the aftershave he always used to use. Apparently still used. John would have to work on not thinking in past tense when it came to Sherlock anymore. But, yes, there was the aftershave. John had an almost empty bottle of it squirreled away somewhere, the actual one Sherlock had abandoned with everything else when he had NOT died. John knew exactly why he kept it, the scent always making him a bit dizzy when it was discovered on his own clothes, and was now quite happy with himself for ignoring the temptation and not being found sniffing it in the loo while having a wank. 

Christ, it was different on Sherlock, though, wasn't it? It was...softer? There was something in Sherlock's body chemistry that changed it. John wanted desperately to smell Sherlock's neck, to breathe in against him and know this was all real, because it didn't feel real. Christ, it didn't feel real even with the man sitting next to him.

Greg was holding his hand and there were so many things he needed to say to him, but John was trapped in this moment with the newly resurrected looking out the window and hurting next to him. For a moment his brain told him this was where time would stick, that he'd be trapped in a cab with an injured Sherlock and a not-yet-fiancé for bloody eternity and there would be the same shit song playing on repeat.

Greg was having his own miniature breakdown, holding John's hand less as a comfort to John and more as a defensive measure. Sherlock needed to see this. Sherlock needed to see they were together because, as he'd admitted, he had been there at the restaurant to whisk John away. 

Hell, maybe that was what was supposed to happen. Maybe, Greg thought, he was supposed to 'take one for the team' and give up on the perfect life he'd created for himself. Sherlock would hardly be happy without John, and an unhappy Sherlock was never anything but destructive, and John was...John was so obviously in love with Sherlock.

Was? Would it stay past tense? Would John see him as a second place prize, now that Sherlock was back with the living?

It was fine having John all for himself when Sherlock was gone, but now? Now that Sherlock was back Greg worried that he'd be stuck at crime scenes watching them flirt without knowing it, and holding his tongue. God, he'd hold his tongue. He'd let John slowly disappear from his life until he was a gossamer version of himself, until he said maybe marriage wasn't for him, until he moved back to Baker Street. 

Would he know what it was like to be one of those poor women John dated before Sherlock (very much) didn't die? Would he be pitied at parties? Would he sit by while the whole room watched his fiancé, sorry, boyfriend, bicker with Sherlock Bloody Holmes over blog entries and what to pick up for supper? 

He'd know. He'd know ahead of time and he'd tell John that he knew. Maybe John would deny it, try to tell him he was imagining things. He'd let John go. He'd let John go because if there was anything he loved in this world it was John and he'd be damned if he was the reason John wasn't happy.

So he sat there and held John's hand. It was all he could do.

Then there was Sherlock, looking out the window and wondering why he even came back. Why fight to stay alive if there was nothing to come home to? John had always been the comfort he got at the end of the day, the thing that made waking up seem preferable to the alternative.

Sherlock was ninety-five percent sure he was going to use. He didn't know how, he just knew that it would happen. He'd find a time to sneak away and he'd just off himself in the most pleasing way possible. Why not? Honestly, could anyone who truly knew him look him in the eye and tell him he'd be okay without John? 

John wasn't moving back. John had been domesticated. John might not even want to go on cases with him anymore.

John said he wasn't gay!

Getting married to a man made you pretty gay, unless...there's always something. Bisexual. Bisexual and not interested in Sherlock Holmes. John had obviously changed his mind after that first night. 

All three men were brought back to the real world when the cabbie raised his voice to them to let them know they'd made it (and he had other places to be). Sherlock hesitantly followed them in and sat uncomfortably in the living room while they spoke in the bedroom. 

"He said he was captured, that's it. He's obviously in pain," Greg said, pacing.

John was standing stock still with his back to the door while his body screamed at him to look out it to make sure Sherlock was still there, still there and still alive ('PLEASE be alive. Don't know what I'd do if you weren't alive. Nearly didn't make it through that before.'). "I'll have to take a look at his injuries," he said, face grave.

Greg turned and took John in his arms, his movements jerky as his mind raced between relief and regret. Everything he was thinking was there on his face, all the pain and fear. John sniffed and scrunched up his nose before falling to one knee.

"Fuck candlelight. It's overrated," he explained, pulling the ring box from his pocket. 

"John, you don't think you should wait?" Greg asked, looking resigned, because he was. He was resigned to letting John go. It would only be worse if he had to remove a bloody ring at the end of-

"Marry me," John said, opening the ring box and taking the ring out. "I'll be romantic at some other time but...I can't have you thinking I might change my mind. I love you. Please, say yes."

And there went Greg's resolve, out the window with everything else. He'd never say no to John, never. He swallowed roughly and nodded, holding his hand out and letting John slip the ring onto it, thinking the whole time that his finger would get used to it, that he'd tan around it soon and once it was gone he would remember how it felt, not just in the upcoming weeks, but right now, right bloody now when John meant it. John stood again and kissed the ring, and then the palm of Greg's hand.

"Let's go do this," John said, as determined as he'd ever been.

Greg kissed him and squared his shoulders, leaving the room and going to start cooking. God knew he was good at getting things done when the walls were burning down around him. 

John joined Sherlock in the sitting room and sat next to him on the sofa.

"I'm angry, you know that, but I need to talk to you," John said, not able yet to look Sherlock in the eye.

Sherlock crossed his arms and folded in on himself, shifting in his seat as the back of his shirt was pulled tightly against his (Yes, he knew they were bleeding, thank you very much.) wounds. "It wasn't even my idea."

John let his head fall into his hands and missed the look of complete despair on Sherlock's face at his obvious dissatisfaction, fingers pressing into his eyes until the back of his eyelids were painted black. He breathed deeply and looked back up to find Sherlock's eyes wide and on the floor.

"Mycroft?" John asked, because that was the only person Sherlock would ever think of listening to, whether he would admit it or not, and the only person who could help Sherlock fake his death.

"We knew it was coming," Sherlock said, not bloody thinking about the ramifications of the statement as that wasn't even something he had planned on admitting to John, that night, or ever.

"What?" John demanded.

Sherlock pulled back a bit and spoke in a monotone voice, seemingly shutting down. "Moriarty had to be stopped. He was fixated on me. He was going to kill you. You and Greg and Mrs Hudson."

That knowledge should have been some sort of relief, proof that it wasn't all a game to Sherlock, that John's misery wasn't for fun. It was the 'why' he was looking for and it was a pretty strong argument, to tell the truth. Instead of giving him comfort it stole his breath away. "Christ," he breathed out, bending over and staring at the floor.

"I couldn't tell you, couldn't have you giving it away," Sherlock added. "I wanted to...I thought of writing a million times."

John nodded, breathed in through his nose, and took one of Sherlock's hands in his after patting it strangely for a moment.

"John," Sherlock said, feeling as though he was going to start crying at any moment.

"Just shut up for a minute while I process the fact that you saved myself and my bloody fiancé from a psychopath by jumping off a building in front of me," John said, voice tight.

"Sandwich ready," Greg said from the kitchen.

John squeezed Sherlock's hand tightly and then let it go, patting Sherlock's knee and nodding towards the kitchen. "Go on."

Sherlock found himself standing without even willing his legs to do so and walked to the kitchen, still wearing his greatcoat and looking like a wilted flower. John watched him leave and pulled his mobile from his pocket. He rang a number he thought he'd never have to call again and stepped outside.


	18. Injuries

The front door closed with a click behind John as he stepped out onto the porch, fingers of one hand deftly undoing his tie as the other held the mobile to his ear. "I was proposing to Greg tonight," he said as soon as Mycroft picked up. "But I have a feeling you knew that."

There was a long pause, the sound of breath drawing in. "John, so nice to hear from you," Mycroft replied in that saccharine sweet tone John so hated.

"Cut the crap. Sherlock knows. He knows Greg and I are engaged. He's spending the night at our place and I need to know how to keep him from...how to..." John tried, clearing his throat when it stopped up with something rough. He couldn't bring himself to say it.

"You're right to think it's a danger night. I would suggest a mild sedative. I'm sending someone with a few pills and some of Sherlock's things," Mycroft said, voice no longer falsely sweet. "Thank you for looking after him."

John's grip on the mobile tightened as he realised they were doing exactly what Mycroft had wanted them to. "Thank Greg," he said, needing the bastard to know he had nothing to do with how well this was going.

_____

While John was outside on the phone Greg was focused on feeding Sherlock and trying not to scare him off. He'd been there before, done something very similar to this, but this time Sherlock wasn't high.

Sherlock had lived with him for three month many years ago. He'd broken out of the rehab center Mycroft had signed him into and shown up high to a crime scene. Back then Greg had been on a break with the ex wife and was living in the closest thing to a cardboard box that an apartment had to offer.

Mycroft had pushed through a late request vacation with Greg's boss and had placed a hefty sum into his account on the understanding that he was to get Sherlock clean.

They'd slept in the same bed that first night, Sherlock shivering against him and speaking nonsense as he tried to sleep. They'd both been rather touch starved and it was seen, the next day, as the mistake it really was.

They managed to build up a good amount of trust over the next months and were living like normal bachelors by the end of it. Greg never mentioned how much he wanted to leave his wife for Sherlock and Sherlock never mentioned how much he never wanted to leave at all, how much he wanted to kiss Greg and live in his arms.

Unlike the time Greg and John spent living together before dating, Sherlock and Greg never fell into touching each other. Greg knew how easy it would be for his role to morph into something more while he had undeniable control over Sherlock's life and was much less of a greedy bastard than he wanted to be. He never held Sherlock's hand, never massaged him with false innocence. 

Sherlock, unfortunately, had taken that as a complete lack of interest. When he was sober and stable again he pretended to forget Greg's name and acted as if they barely knew each other, hoping to kill off the part of himself at wanted to sink into Greg's arms. It hadn't really worked.

Now they were sitting next to each other at the small kitchen table and Sherlock wanted to crawl into his lap and cry as well as hit him until he stopped moving. The indecision was a good thing. Neither would have gone over well at that point.

"You're getting married," Sherlock said.

Greg swallowed and nodded, sure all that lurked there was jealousy.

"Is John going on cases with you?" Sherlock asked, take a large bite of his sandwich and continuing to look into his plate like it held all the answers to all the questions he wanted to ask.

"No," Greg replied honestly.

Sherlock looked up at that with wide eyes. He'd expected that the only reason John was with Greg was so that he could replicate his previous life with Sherlock. On the one hand, this revelation meant that maybe John would still be interested in assisting him on new cases, on the other it meant that what John and Greg had wasn't just John clamoring to replace him. He looked back down to his plate.

John rang off and went back into the house, walking through the front door of his home like he was walking onto a battlefield. When he made it to the doorway of the kitchen he held off, standing just out of sight and watching Greg urge Sherlock to eat the last triangle of sandwich. Greg's eyes were so soft. It was obvious how much he cared about Sherlock. 

For some reason this didn't cause John to want to hit something. He was starting to breathe easier, the Alprazolam Greg had snuck into his hand in the bedroom helping. At least now, his heart wasn't beating so damn fast. He wasn't seeing red, either. He was still incredibly hurt, but he had a feeling nothing would make that go away.

"Would you like a couple paracetamol?" Greg asked, bringing Sherlock a glass of milk and noting how slight he looked. He'd lost quite a bit of weight while he was gone, though he'd gained muscle.

"I'm already on something for the pain," Sherlock replied.

"What are your injuries?" John asked from the doorway.

Sherlock refused to answer and John walked into the kitchen and up next to him, letting him see full well what he was about to do before reaching up and running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He only found one set of stitches. Sherlock batted his hand away and went back to his sandwich.

John went to the fridge and picked up a bottle of beer, rolling it back and forth between his hands before putting it away. He was so tempted, so bloody tempted, and maybe that said more about his and Sherlock's similarities than anything else.

He felt Greg's eyes on him and turned back to Sherlock. Looking him over once more, as if to make sure he was still there, before walking into the bedroom and going into the closet. He figured Sherlock could fit into a pair of Greg's pyjama pants if they had drawstrings and he could definitely fit into one of his shirts. He brought the stack out and set it on the edge of the tub in the loo.

He needed to see the injuries.

"Come in here," John shouted, not waiting before taking out his med kit.

Sherlock walked in timidly. "I've already been seen by Mycroft's doctors."

"And I probably pulled out a few stitches," John replied, nodding to Greg over Sherlock's shoulder. "Hand Greg your coat and suit jacket and let's see how bad this is."

Sherlock looked between the two of them and huffed, letting his greatcoat slip off and then trying to remove his suit jacket. He was stiff and it hurt, really hurt, and the look he made when he tried had Greg coming forward and pulling it from him carefully, gripping it at the wrists.

The back of Sherlock's shirt was bloody. The white of the shirt couldn't hide it. 

John saw it in Greg's eyes and took a step forward. "Mycroft's people are bringing some of Sherlock's things. Why don't you wait in the sitting room for them."

Greg nodded and John turned on the cold tap on the sink and started on Sherlock's buttons.

"I can do that," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes dramatically.

John rolled his eyes back, he'd done this enough times. "Just hold still."

He pulled the shirt down Sherlock's shoulders and kept a neutral face as he slipped it under the hot water. Sherlock stood where he was and watched John soak the shirt, the blood swirling and pink in the water, before coming back to him.

"Turn around," John said, voice somehow even.

When Sherlock turned around John was glad for the medication he had taken. Sherlock's back was covered in gauze. Some of it was soaked with blood, blood that was incredibly similar to the blood he'd seen Sherlock covered in before. 

On the concrete. Crumpled on the ground in front of Bart's. Blood soaking thick tendrils of hair.

He guessed they made high quality fake stuff nowadays. He pulled one of the edges back and saw what he was expecting. There were long slashes that were indicative of a whip and smaller ones that were probably knife wounds. And there were cigarette burns. Quite a few.

He knew injuries like this. He'd seen the faces of the men who came back with them. He also knew that the best thing he could do for Sherlock would be to clean him up quickly without drawing too much attention to it.

"Are you on antibiotics?" he asked, pulling on a pair of gloves and getting out a few medicated towelettes.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, hissing as John cleaned up the edges of one of the slashes.

"Do you want to go to hospital tomorrow and get these-" he started, not knowing how much Sherlock could handle.

"Just do it!" Sherlock growled, hands clenched into fists.

"Yeah, alright," John said, taking a deep breath. "Sit on the toilet lid for me."

Sherlock sat as John peeled open an individually packed needle and a spool of suture string. John threaded the needle and picked it up with a simple hemostat.

"Here we go."

Sherlock's brain was obviously beyond compromised with sentiment becuase, even through gloves and even with the addition of pain, he loved John's touch. He let his eyes fall closed and imagined John's lips on his back, soothing the torn flesh.

John closed the area that had pulled open with three interrupted stitches and tied off the ones that had been yanked out. He trimmed everything up and set his tools aside.

"Have you talked to anyone about this?" he asked as he got fresh gauze and tape ready.

"Have you talked to anyone?" Sherlock shot back defensively, already snapping out of his fantasy.

"I actually have. New bloke. Ella never worked for me," John said, honestly just to prove he was right.

Sherlock shifted, remembering that apparently John hadn't taken his death well. He'd caused John to actually have to get a shrink that worked, how that could feel both like a triumph and a knife in the stomach he didn't know. "I've only been back for two days."

John swallowed. "Back. How long since you were...freed?"

"Two days," Sherlock whispered. "I was debriefed yesterday."

John reminded himself to gut Mycroft like a fish. "But you wouldn't rest," he said, knowing it to be true.

"I didn't want you to wait," Sherlock explained, voice for once sounding guilty. "It's all really supposed to still be secret."

John nodded and passed Sherlock the shirt and pyjama trousers. "Thank you for that. Get dressed and we'll watch a movie."

"Is that what you do now, watch movies?" Sherlock asked, voice weak.

"I missed you," John said, refusing to take the bait. Sherlock looked up at him and John looked incredibly pained. "I'm glad you're home, Sherlock. I'm really glad you're home."


	19. Don't Let Go

John didn't know how Greg got Sherlock to take the sedative. He was in the shower trying not to cry and by the time he got out, fingers and toes wrinkled, and still in a horrid mood, Sherlock was drifting off on the sofa. He got into his pyjamas and went out into the sitting room to help Sherlock up and into the guest room.

"I can walk on my own," Sherlock complained, leaning heavily on John's shoulder and resting his chin on John's face awkwardly.

"Course you can," John mumbled, eyes tearing up.

He settled Sherlock onto the bed and pulled the duvet out from under him, tucking him in and running a hand through his hair.

"I missed you, too," Sherlock whispered, eyes already closed and clutching the extra pillow to his chest. "I never...never wanted..." and he was asleep.

John clenched his jaw, nose twitching, and walked back to his bedroom, climbing under the covers and listening to Greg put the dishes in the dishwasher. He was right on the precipice, not sure if he'd be able to stop himself from all out sobbing. The whole night had been...

He wanted to crawl into bed next to Sherlock and run his fingers through his hair until he fell asleep but he needed Greg more. He needed Greg badly at that point. It felt selfish to need him so much, like he'd lost all the ground he'd gained over the last two years, like he was back at square one.

Greg finally finished in the kitchen and walked into the bedroom, pausing before closing the door behind himself. He paused again at the side of the bed before slipping under the covers and facing John, slowly being able to see his face in the dark of the room.

When he touched John's face, running his thumb across his cheek, it felt to John like the first time he'd ever been touched in his entire life.

"I'm so sorry that-" Greg tried.

"Don't-" John said, voice cracking before he could stop it.

Greg hushed him and leaned in, kissing his lips with so little pressure that John leaned forward without meaning to. Their lips slotted together and John drew in a shaky breath through his nose, tears already rolling down his cheeks and turning the kiss salty. Greg turned his head a bit and licked into his mouth, tongue hesitant until it found John's responsive.

John felt like he should be properly grieving, like that involved not doing anything that felt good, but he couldn't stop, couldn't keep himself from becoming aroused. His stomach roiled with that arousal, feeling lust and shame in equal parts. He wanted to punish himself somehow, felt like he needed to hurt. Didn't know why.

Greg drew back and pulled his shirt off, needing to get closer to John, needing to do something primal and life affirming, needing to prove to himself that John still wanted him even with Sherlock back from the dead. John scrambled to follow, chucking his shirt over the edge of the bed and kicking off his pyjama bottoms and pants. 

When they were both completely naked they wrapped around each other, mouths hungry and gasping as their erections rubbed together between them. They were both panting and trying not to be too loud, hands gripping at hair as their hips rolled in near-violent movements. John wrapped a leg high around Greg's hip and buried his face in the man's neck as he was rolled onto his back.

He was crying, not holding back, as Greg thrust against him, hips pushing him into the bed. He didn't even care that he was crying, couldn't bring himself to care. All he could do was feel.

(The roughness of the pads of Greg's fingers as they pushed into his mouth, pressing his tongue down and rubbing slowly.

The pressure of Greg's body against his cock, the way their sweat made them both slick.

The pull of stubble against his ear as Greg panted into it, grunting softly now.)

He sucked on Greg's fingers and gripped his arse with both hands, digging his fingers in more roughly than he allowed himself to at any other time. He wanted to mark Greg, to leave proof that they'd done this, that they were alive and fertile and fucking, fucking like mad.

It was stupid, a foolish thought, something from a part of John's brain he didn't like to think had any hold on him. Claim. Claim. Claim.

"Harder," he murmured around Greg's fingers, word coming out jumbled but understandable.

Greg pulled his hand away and propped himself up on his elbows, rutting against John's body, and John held on and flexed his thighs. He was close, God, he was close.

"Want you," he whispered.

That seemed to hit Greg particularly hard as he cleared his throat and cursed under his breath. "Fuck."

"Want you," John said a bit louder, out of breath and desperate.

Greg slipped a hand between them and started to stroke their pricks, holding them both in a tight fist and clenching his eyes closed as his wrist moved at what felt like break-neck speed.

"Come on me," John said, not even sure why he had said it. 

"Fuck, yes," Greg panted, mouth falling open into a silent scream as he came in thick ropes all over John's stomach.

John was about to take himself in hand when Greg moved down his body and took his prick in his mouth. John felt a strange whine escape his mouth as Greg choked around him and continued. It lacked Greg's usual finesse in favor of the rough and quick pattern they'd worked up to and it was exactly what John needed to get off.

He whined again and was coming, coming in Greg's mouth and crying uncontrollably. Greg sucked it all down and then reached over the side of the bed for something to wipe John's stomach off with. He came back with one of their shirts, impossible to tell whose in the dark, and covered John's stomach with kisses after passing the shirt over it a few times, lips tasting of come and sweat. He didn't mind.

When he made it back up to the pillows he pulled John against his chest and held him as he sobbed. 

He could feel John's heart beating where his face was pressed to John's neck. He had a sort of panicked moment where he wondered if John could feel the beat of his heart, thought for a moment that it was very important that he could. Thought for some reason that it was the only way to prove he was alive, the only way to prove to John that he was there.

John felt small in his arms, tucked in there with his knees drawn up, fingers gripping him. He wanted so badly to say the right thing, but he knew that nothing would be right, that words were so often painful for John, that actions were the only thing that counted. 

He spent nearly an hour running his fingers through John's sweat damp hair, eyes fixed on the digital clock over John's shoulder. He watched the numbers change and felt John fall deeper and deeper into sleep until the only thing holding them together were his own arms, John slack and snoring softly. 

He couldn't let go.

He couldn't let go.

He couldn't.


	20. Alive, Well, And Cleared

Sherlock was already awake when John's alarm went off the next morning, standing in the sitting room and looking out through the rain. John slipped on pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt and went to the loo before joining Sherlock. He looked behind them into the kitchen and Greg smiled at him gently before going back to making something that smelled of cinnamon.

"There's a terror plot," Sherlock said, hands held behind his back and eyes trained out the window.

John snorted. "Of bloody course there is."

"Not sure if you're still interested in...that sort of thing," Sherlock added, chin held a bit too high to be anything but intentional.

"I've not changed, you know," John said, feeling a bit defensive. "I'm the same person."

Sherlock smirked bitterly. "Is that so?"

"What the hell does that mean?" John asked, stepping aside and facing Sherlock with his arms crossed.

He'd been afraid of this, afraid that Sherlock would be picky and temperamental, and under all that, secretly, that it would be his own damn fault.

"Not gay," Sherlock said, attempting to impersonate John's previous statements.

John bristled at that. As he'd worried, then. His fault. It was always his fault. "Why would you care?"

"Because you lied to me," Sherlock said, eyebrows knit and angrier than he wanted to be. "You told me you weren't gay and you're apparently absolutely comfortable with it all now. Which leads me to think that your discomfort was entirely dependent on my presence. Am I really such a horrid option that you'd have to lie about your sexuality?"

"First of all, I'm not sure if I'd be talking about lies if I were you, and second of all, you didn't...you were married to you work," John hissed, looking into the kitchen to make sure Greg wasn't listening. "You weren't an option at all. It was...it was easier to say that than go into why we weren't together. I'm not...I'm bisexual."

"Obviously," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes. "What happened to it all being alright?"

'That was when I thought I didn't need you,' Sherlock thought, 'that was before I fell in love with you.'

"Yes, of course. I apologise," he said instead.

John looked shocked. "That's...that's it?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked back out the window.

"I didn't say I was straight," John added a few moments later. "I was...it seemed like the best option at the time."

"To stay closeted?" Sherlock asked, face blank while his mind did somersaults.

"Mmm," John agreed.

"Not because of me," Sherlock added, needing the clarification so desperately.

"You weren't interested in that anyway...you weren't...you don't go in for that sort of thing," John said, hoping that Sherlock would just tell him what the hell he was thinking.

"Often," Sherlock said, voice tight. "Don't go in for that sort of thing often."

For the second time that morning John had been shocked by something Sherlock had said. It was like he hadn't even known the man.

"But when you do...it's men?" he tried.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered.

"And you have..." John added, unable to stop himself.

"Yes," Sherlock bit out, cutting him off.

John had the strange feeling of sinking through the floor as he went over the years they'd spent together, coming away with only one conclusion.

"So...just...just not me," he said, heart breaking a bit.

That hadn't been something he'd considered before. He'd been comfortable with the idea that Sherlock just wasn't a sexual person, that he didn't want that. Now that he knew that to be untrue he felt like he'd just spent a whole lifetime being consistently turned down for a date.

"That's not exactly," Sherlock replied, clearing his throat nervously, "you weren't gay."

John looked over and Sherlock's face was so sad. His heart caught in his throat and he suddenly felt like he might be sick, right there in his own sitting room.

"Doesn't matter now, though," Sherlock said.

John shook his head, unable to speak.

"But I'd still like to..." Sherlock continued. "If you're interested..."

For a second John thought he was asking if he was interested in sex, asking if he wanted to fuck him with his fiancé in the next room. When it finally hit him that he was speaking of the case he let out a weak laugh and nodded.

"Oh, really?" Sherlock asked, eyes lighting up.

"I've got the day off," John added.

Greg leaned out of the kitchen just then. "Breakfast is served, gentlemen."

_____

It was a morning of misrules, it seemed, Sherlock being open about his sexuality and feelings for John only being the beginning. After breakfast he told the men he'd be heading to 221b to see Mrs Hudson and left without any sort of issue or snide remark, just a promise that he'd be back in a few hours with information on the new case. He looked somewhat deflated, everything about him less confident.

When he was gone Greg moved to stand behind John where he was at the window and wrapped his arms around his waist. John sighed and closed his eyes, letting Greg hold him and kiss his neck.

"He seems alright," Greg said, the words whispered against John's skin.

"He's...different," John remarked, confused by Sherlock's seemingly stable state.

"You two going to catch up later today?" Greg asked.

Before John could answer, both of their mobiles were going off, Greg's ringing and John's registering multiple text messages. Greg was turning on the telly before John could even decipher what his sister was texting him, and there it was, in large red letters scrolling across the bottom of the screen as the reported spoke.

"-has been completely cleared. It has been proved that Richard Brook was a complete fabrication of-"

Greg flicked to another station.

"-consulting detective, is alive and well. Two years ago after his persecution by the-"

Greg took John's hand a squeezed it, not needing to look over to know John's jaw was tight.

______

Fifteen minutes later they were in the shower together, Greg leaning against the wall as John scrubbed his back.

"Sherlock hates my mustache," John said. It had been on his mind since the night before.

"Oh?" Greg asked, mind racing as he tried to figure a way to stay neutral while also pushing John in the right direction.

"But you like it, right?" John asked, pausing with his hands on Greg's hips.

Greg must have stayed silent too long because John pulled away.

"Is Sally the only one that likes it?" he asked, running his hand over it.

Greg turned and shrugged and John huffed a sigh as he was pulled into an embrace.

"I was only trying it out," John said, closing his eyes and letting Greg rub up and down his back.

"I know, love," Greg said.

John huffed warm air against his neck. "Is it really that bad?"

"I heard somewhere that Bond had one, so it really can't be," Greg said, kissing John's neck.

John laughed against his skin and Greg felt him grow rigid before the unmistakable sound of a wet sob. Greg held him tighter and ran his hand through his hair.

"Do you want me to take a day off work?" Greg asked after John pulled himself back together a bit.

John snorted. "Am I really that much of a mess?"

"You aren't a mess," Greg said, leaning back and kissing John gently, thumbs brushing away tears.

"I'll be fine," John said. "I'll come by around lunch."

Greg kissed him again and they finished up their shower.

_____

When Sherlock returned Greg had already left for work and John was sitting watching things continue to unfold on the telly, sound on mute.

"It's really over," John said as Sherlock sat next to him on the sofa and laid out some files.

Sherlock looked up at the screen and cleared his throat. He had thought that they'd be watching this unfold from Baker Street, sitting in their chairs and grinning at each other. It didn't feel as celebratory here.

"It is, yes," he said.

"I knew you were real," John said, finally looking to Sherlock. "I never doubted you."

"You always were ridiculously loyal," Sherlock said, hands stilling on the files. "Good quality in a companion."

"That why you're keeping me around?" John asked, soft smile playing across his lips.

"Well...I hadn't really made my mind up about that, but you did get rid of the mustache, so..." Sherlock replied.

"Fuck off," John said, with a chuckle, fingers passing over his newly shorn upper lip. "Show me the damn case already."

Sherlock laughed along with him, wistful look on his face, and spread out some photos.


	21. Deal

Sherlock was up and making them tea while he explained the photos. They were, perhaps unsurprisingly as it was a terror plot and not a recent incident, photos of the pre-deceased. It was less comforting to see their uneventful photos as Sherlock explained.

"These people are markers. I like to think of them as the canaries in the coal mine. Their lives are only interesting to us if they take a drastic turn."

"So if they, what, leave the country, we know something's about to happen?" John asked, sifting through the pages of notes Sherlock had managed to put together.

"Exactly," Sherlock said, returning from the kitchen with two steaming mugs.

John didn't stop to ask him how he knew where the tea was; that was always something Sherlock seemed to know, no matter where they ended up. Instead he picked up the mug and settled back on the sofa. He was honestly rather lost in thought. Not about the terror plot or tea, or even the so called canaries, but about Sherlock. It was amazing to have Sherlock sat next to him. Amazing.

"Do you think you'll ever tell me what went on out there? Not...not pushing or anything, but just...if you needed to tell someone you could tell me," John said, back peddling once he realised he'd said his thought allowed.

"I was doing a difficult job with limited resources," Sherlock said, eyes on the small table covered in photos. "You know what that's like, I'm sure."

"Mmm," John agreed, remembering what you left behind when you could only take what you could carry. 

Sherlock looked up at him for a second, mouth slightly open as if to say something, and John sat up.

'I needed you out there,' Sherlock didn't say. 'I needed you more than I can say. If you'd come with me I wouldn't have been alone. If you'd come with me I'd have been better. If you'd come with me you wouldn't have Greg.'

"Mycroft has more papers on the terror plot at his office. I think...yeah, I think I should go," he said instead, setting his drink down and standing.

"You don't have to go," John replied, seeing the look of a frightened animal in Sherlock's eyes. "You could stay."

It felt like saying the words in another time. It felt like speaking them through a phone receiver while looking up that the roof of a building. It felt like a plea.

"I should just," Sherlock tried, grabbing his coat.

"You didn't have-" John said, standing and swallowing down emotion, a strange, almost smile spreading across his face before he shook it off. "You didn't have a choice before. And now, now I'm bloody standing here, and, and, just don't go."

Sherlock paused at that, eyes flitting back and forth as he fought with himself. "What place is there here, John? For me? What...what place is there for me?"

"Jesus, Sherlock," John sighed, swallowing roughly and going to take the coat out of Sherlock's hand, "we'll sort it out, yeah? In the meantime, let's get back to the case."

_____

Several hours later, one case set aside and another brought up on John's laptop, John's alarm on his mobile went off.

"Time for lunch," John said, standing and stretching. "Come on, let's go get Greg."

"I could go back to Baker Street if-" Sherlock said, throat tight.

"Shut up and grab your coat," John replied with an eye roll.

Sherlock took his coat back down from the hook and followed John sheepishly out to the street. It had stopped raining for the time being but the air was still thick with it, the tree limbs around them hanging with wet leaves. 

They walked for a block before finally catching a cab and then slid into the seat with perfect coordination. John wanted to reach out and take Sherlock's hand, wanted to soothe his nerves. Instead, he decided it best to focus on the streets out the window.

"How is your back?" he asked, feeling hot where their feet touched.

Sherlock sniffed and aborted a shrug. "Sore. Not bad, really."

"Be ready to run after killers in no time, right?" John asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, smiling softly.

John did reach over and grip Sherlock's hand then, only for a short squeeze, but still. Sherlock could feel his fingers long after they were gone and was still focusing on the feeling when their cab stopped at the kerb. John had to say his name a few times to get him to follow him out of the cab.

"I'll wait out here," Sherlock said once they were close to the building. "Don't really feel like going inside just yet."

John saw him eyeing the building like it might strike out and understood completely. He nodded and went through the front door, leaving Sherlock to lean heavily against the outer brick wall and have a cigarette. Three in three days. Not a particularly successful former addiction.

_____

John made his way back to Greg's office with ease and was relieved to not find Sally in the room. He really needed to talk to Greg about Sherlock and doing so with Sally there would just be courting disaster. 

Greg looked up at him from a stack of papers and smiled. "Hello, gorgeous. Is it lunch time already?"

John closed the door behind himself a leaned against it, not exactly sure what to say. What he decided on seemed simple enough. "I brought Sherlock."

Greg got up and walked across the room, scooting John out of the way to peek out the door.

"He's outside," John added.

"Alright..." Greg said, ready for the other shoe to drop.

"He needs a case," John said. "Nothing on his blog is any good and the thing Mycroft has him on could take a month to heat up. Can we just...can we find him something to do?"

Greg smiled and wrapped his arms around John's waist, pulling him closer and kissing him gently. When he stood back he was grinning.

"What?" John asked, blushing a bit at the way Greg was looking at him.

"I just love you, that's all," Greg said, kissing John again before heading back to his desk. "And I'll find something. We'll take care of him."

_____

Sherlock took the first pull and clenched his fist, running his thumb across his palm and thinking about John's fingers.

Before, he would have been able to push aside the feeling of John's skin on his, but now it was all consuming. He supposed that was normal after dreaming about being with someone again for two bloody years. In all honesty, it hadn't been the two years away that had brought him to the revelation that he wanted a romantic relationship with John. That had happened when he'd seen John with Greg. The fact that John could have a relationship, an open and obviously loving relationship, with a man had crushed any doubts.

He'd been living on the idea that they just weren't meant to be together, a romantic thought in its own way if you squinted, and the main part of that theory was that John wasn't gay. He'd suspected John was bisexual for quite some time but, as he'd never dated a man while Sherlock was around, he'd assumed it was very much repressed. Now that it was clear that John was out, the only thing left was the question running circles in his mind; why not me?

It was like some sort of ironic tragedy that the only reason they hadn't been together before seemed to be that each of them thought the other not interested. Had the trappings of Shakespeare. 

So there he was, trying to figure out how to build his life all over again, feeling foolish for thinking he could just pick back up where he'd left off, and having the third cigarette in so many days. At least it wasn't heroin.

"Sherlock," Greg said, leading John out the front door and smiling at him like he always seemed to do now.

Sherlock crushed the butt of his cigarette against the building and tossed it in a bin before joining them and heading towards the sandwich shop on the corner. When they made it Greg held the door open for the other two and then wrapped his arm around John's waist. They ordered and sat in the back.

"I've got a case you might like," Greg said to Sherlock, resting his hand on John's thigh and giving it a squeeze.

Sherlock looked up, hopeful for a second, and then frowned. "Probably boring. You would have rang me if you were desperate."

"Bloke's dead," Greg replied. "Has been for a while. Scene is closed off. Sort of newly-cold-case. Will you take a look after lunch?"

John smiled over at him and Sherlock sank back into his chair. "What's going on? Are you two trying to...what are you doing?"

"Nothing," John lied.

"Come on, the three of us working a case together," Greg said, all out grinning now, "like Baskerville. It could be fun."

"You really are disturbingly easy to please," Sherlock said, trying not to show that it actually made him a bit happy.

"Say yes," Greg prodded as they were brought their food.

"Come on, can't be worse than sitting around the house," John added.

Sherlock sighed and unwrapped his sandwich. "Fine. But if it's horrid I'm allowed to complain."

"Deal," John said, knowing there was no way they could stop that to begin with.


	22. Steady

It was difficult for Sherlock to sit through another meal with John and Greg. It was apparent that they didn't even notice when they were being disturbingly affectionate. John wasn't a baby bird, after all, but Greg insisted on feeding him. 

Him. 

John. 

John Watson of the Queen's Army.

John 'nerves of steel, crack shot, left hook that really smarts' Watson.

It was disturbing, to say the least, to see John act so differently. Love, it seemed, had calmed him. It wrenched something in Sherlock's stomach, not only to see John being comfortable being treated so gently in public, but to see Greg, who he'd come to know as chronically unhappy, glowing with pride. Each time John smiled or took a chip from his fingers Greg would sigh and think loudly enough for the street to hear.

'What about me?' Sherlock couldn't help but think, having been in the care of both men at one time.

He hated feeling like that, hated feeling small and in need. He'd spent long enough thinking over his relationship with John while away, though, that he knew better than to sabotage their friendship. He knew he needed to find a way to live through it, because, for god's sake, he'd only just realised what friendship really meant.

He wasn't alone in the woods anymore, and more than that, he had no inclination to be.

"Sherlock," Greg said, squeezing his shoulder.

Sherlock looked up, surprised out of his thoughts, to find Greg smiling at him fondly. "Hmm?"

"You haven't eaten a bite," Greg said, unwrapping Sherlock's sandwich and holding out one half of it.

Sherlock looked at Greg and then the sandwich before taking it and taking a nibble. Greg squeezed the back of his neck and Sherlock felt himself blush. 

'Well, that's not quite fair, is it? Making me blush in public?' Sherlock thought, eyes fixed on the table.

John gripped Greg's hand, twining their fingers together and sighing. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what was happening, but it made him happy. And happy, after all he'd been through, was a shock.

_____

After Sherlock managed to finish half his sandwich and all of the chips John passed his way, the three men walked to the parking complex behind the Yard and climbed into Greg's panda. It smelled of vinyl polish and gun powder and was somehow soothing in its own way. Sherlock made sure to sit in the middle seat on the pretense of speaking with Greg, and took comfort in the warmth of John's thigh against his.

It didn't have to be sexual, he told himself. He could live with something different, had for years, in fact.

They made their way across town to a building with a hole in the wall and Sherlock held the tape up for them all to climb under to get to the scene. Constable Garland was there, an older fellow who got along well with everyone, and Sherlock wondered if he'd been picked specifically for his calm demeanor. He was the only constable that Sherlock had worked with that he hadn't yelled at before.

"Garland," Sherlock said as he passed.

"Holmes," the man replied smoothly, as if not seeing him for the first time after thinking him dead for two whole years.

Sherlock was grateful for it.

They went down further into the building and finally surrounded a desk, a skeleton in a suit seated at it and gawping at them.

"Here it is," Greg said, standing back to give Sherlock a wide berth. "Got a tip earlier in the week."

Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves and leaned in, running his finger across the lapel of the jacket and sniffing it.

Fire damage. Victorian outfit that had spent quite a long time in one place in direct sunlight. Skeleton professionally cleaned. Approximately forty years old. Scene staged.

"John?" Sherlock said, gesturing to the skeleton. 

John pulled on a fresh pair of gloves himself and began his own investigation.

'Wasting time,' the John in Sherlock's head chided. 'No reason to have him tell you what you already know.'

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to shut that voice up. It was one that had been plaguing him for quite some time. A bit cruel, he thought, to have his anxiety take on the voice of his greatest champion. His mind had always been cruel to him, though.

"Medical school skeleton. Note the metal pins," John said standing back. "Should have a serial number somewhere."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at John. "Staged. Graduating class prank, I'd wager."

"But why here? Why like this?" Greg asked, moving forward and pulling open the drawers in the desk one by one.

When he got to the second to last Sherlock plucked out a dusty book, title written on the front in fountain pen. 

"How I did it," John read allowed, "by Jack the Ripper."

Sherlock snorted and pulled his gloves off. "This happens every so often. Of course, we all know who really committed the crimes."

Both John and Greg looked up at him in confusion.

"Oh, well, if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm not going to tell you," Sherlock said, with a smug look. "The facts are all there."

"What do you mean the facts-" Greg tried.

"Wait, you know who Jack the Ripper-" John interjected. 

"Anyhow. This is a sham and a waste of my time," Sherlock said.

'And you loved it,' the John in his head added. 'Show off.'

"Well, thanks for closing it, at least," Greg said as they walked together out to the street. "I've got to hang around and take it all down."

"We can catch a cab," John said.

"Will you stay for dinner?" Greg asked, the question directed at Sherlock.

"I don't want to impose," Sherlock replied, voice tight and nose scrunched up.

"Nonsense," Greg said. "I know I'll feel better with you under our roof."

John nodded to Greg over Sherlock's shoulder as he hailed a cab.

_____

Sherlock settled into the guest bed for the second night after John checked that the sutures he'd put in had held, laying on his side with his eyes closed. He could hear John and Greg talking in the loo, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Over the next few minutes he drifted off to sleep, their voices morphing into something else. 

When he was woken abruptly twenty minutes later he didn't know where he was.

"Sherlock," John said, concern thick in his voice. "Wake up."

Sherlock let out a half yell and say up, eyes wide. "They were, you were," he panted.

Greg came into the room and sat next to him on the bed, glass of water in one hand and a sedative in the other.

"It was a nightmare," John said, pushing Sherlock's hair back from his forehead and looking him in he eyes. "Just a nightmare."

"Take this," Greg said, holding out the pill. "Same as last night. It'll help."

Sherlock stared into the middle space for a while before snatching the pill and downing the whole glass of water. His eyes wouldn't seem to focus and he could still hear the sound of the chains that had held him, could hear them dragging across the ground.

When his breathing got back to normal John and Greg exchanged looks and John cleared his throat. Sherlock was sure they were going to tell him he couldn't stay. 

"Come on," John said, nodding towards the hall. "We aren't leaving you in here."

Sherlock let himself be helped up by Greg and followed them into their bedroom. He was still spinning a bit and at first didn't understand. John got into bed on the far side and pulled the blankets down so Sherlock could slip under. Sherlock just stared at him while Greg stood at his side.

"Come on," John said again, face serious. "I won't bite."

"You'll sleep better," Greg promised, hand on Sherlock's lower back.

Sherlock took in a shaky breath and climbed into bed, laying still next to John while Greg went to turn the hall light off. When Greg slid into bed behind him and pulled the covers up Sherlock felt tears start to stream down his face. 

He thought he was being quiet enough. He wasn't.

John gripped his hand and Greg ran his fingers through his hair. It was all Sherlock could do to breathe.

"It's alright. You're safe," Greg said, his breath warm across Sherlock's neck.

John twined their fingers together and held their hands over his heart, eyes closing. Sherlock cried harder but no one said a thing. After twenty or so minutes Sherlock felt the pull of sleep, Greg's breath against his neck as steady as John's heart beat was on his hand. He was too tired to fight it. He gave in.


	23. The Same Sort Of Feeling

Earlier that night, before Sherlock's nightmare, John and Greg were sat on the sofa watching the telly with the volume down. John was resting back against Greg, Greg's chest to his back, and thinking about what they were to do next.

"I can tell you're thinking," Greg said, kissing the crown of his head.

"Sherlock's rubbing off on you," John replied, sighing.

"Want to talk about it?" Greg asked, sure he knew what John was thinking about but needing conformation.

John clenched his jaw and breathed in. "No."

"Alright," Greg said. "Want to go to bed?"

"I don't want him to go home. I know it's selfish of me, but. If he could just spend the night here a few days a week I'd feel better about all this. I worry about him," John said, frustration coming out in his voice in equal parts with concern. "I worry about him being home alone."

Greg sniffed, wrinkling up his nose as he sometimes did when he was thinking. "I don't think that's selfish. It's not like he really wants to be home."

"Not selfish to him," John explained.

"You think I don't want him around?" Greg asked, surprised but not wanting to make a big deal about it. Sometimes the worst thing to do was to show John your position before he explained himself.

"Well, not all the time. I mean you can't honestly want him around all the time," John said, exasperated for having to explain himself more.

"Why not?" Greg asked, going on when John snorted. "I mean it. He..he lived with me before," he admitted. "Only for a couple of months, but, it wasn't good when he left. I missed him."

John was shocked. Although he realised he didn't know everything about Greg he also thought that something like that would have come up before. "He lived with you?"

"It was a long time before you came along. He was trying to get clean and not having much luck," Greg said, rubbing circles into the palm of John's hand.

"Were you two ever, I mean, did you..." John asked, arousal raising its proverbial head as he thought of Greg and Sherlock spending nights on the sofa like this and realised he could see it.

"No. He was younger and not doing well. Would have been taking advantage," Greg explained.

"Another time, would you have?" John asked, honestly surprised he wasn't feeling jealous.

"Yes," Greg said. "I expect the same goes for you."

"Maybe," John said, meaning yes, "another time."

That was when they heard Sherlock scream.

"Christ," John said, getting up.

Greg went right to the loo and got a sedative.

_____

The next morning Sherlock woke up pushing the covers to the bottom of the bed. He was ridiculously warm, and as he stretched he realised why. John. John and Greg. John and Greg had him melting like an ice cube on hot pavement. His skin was sticky with sweat. 

Greg still had his arm slung low around Sherlock's waist. John stirred and rolled onto his side and wrapped an arm around Sherlock in the other direction. 

It was incredibly unfair because Sherlock had never felt so safe and cared for and this couldn't possibly last. He was their friend. He was the odd third wheel and they were getting married. He was like their stepchild and it was so beyond not what he wanted. 

And yet, if he had to choose he would stay exactly where he was right then, for the rest of his bloody life.

John woke, eyes fluttering open, and stretched, arms reaching above his head. When he saw Sherlock watching him, those peculiar eyes of his working hard at something, he cleared his throat. "How did you sleep?"

Sherlock's voice was rough with sleep when he spoke, making him sound even more petulant than usual. "You mean after I woke you up?"

"We weren't asleep yet," John explained.

"Oh," Sherlock whispered, looking down.

Greg stirred behind Sherlock and rested his face against the back of Sherlock's neck. "Do we have to get up yet?"

John looked at the clock and laid back down, threading his and Greg's fingers together over Sherlock's middle. "Another half hour."

"Who kicked the sheets off?" Greg asked, yawning and wriggling his toes.

"You two make it like a furnace in here," Sherlock said, trying to sound annoyed.

Greg snorted and closed his eyes. "You haven't lived through a summer with that one in your bed. Sweat my bollocks off, I do."

"Oi, I'm not the only one putting off heat," John grumbled. "So you two just cram it."

Greg pressed his toes under Sherlock's ankles and tried to fall back asleep, wholly ignorant of the look Sherlock was giving John. Sherlock's smile, eyes twinkling, turned sad near the end and he tucked his chin down. John reached over and brushed a thumb across his cheek and he closed his eyes. 

This. This was too much.

_____

Sherlock had been spending the night in John and Greg's bed, fit snugly between them, for six days in a row before John and Greg had to have a real talk about it. Although it was obviously working to ease Sherlock's nightmares, they hadn't had a good romp in their own bed in a while and getting each other off in the shower wasn't the same. Erections were also difficult to deal with when the person laying between you wasn't allowed to feel them.

They managed to grab a pint after football that Saturday, while Sherlock was at Bart's doing some experiment or another. 

The one pint turned into three as they avoided talking. When Greg finally spoke up John swallowed and planned for the worst. He knew Greg had seen the touches, the looks he and Sherlock shared, just as much as he'd seen the behavior between the two of them, most recently the kiss Greg gave to Sherlock's cheek after he'd helped Greg with breakfast dishes.

"So...what's going on with Sherlock is..." Greg tried, watching John for a response before going on. "I mean, I know you care about him, and you know I do, too."

John cleared his throat and thought of that morning's kiss. "Yeah."

"Ive never, well, never been in this sort of position before," Greg added.

"Love triangle," John said bitterly, reaching out and taking one of Greg's hands in his.

Greg shook his head, nose scrunched up. "No. I don't think that's what this is."

"What is it, then?" John asked, fingers digging into the palm of Greg's hand.

"Three people who fit together. I mean, we obviously have different relationships with him, but they're similar, right? Same sort of feeling?" Greg asked. "We both know we'd date him if things were different."

John took the last gulp of his lager and wrapped his arm around Greg's waist, resting his head on Greg's shoulder. "What do we do?"

"I would say we should try...try having him be a part of our relationship, but I don't think we can try. He couldn't take it if we changed our minds. What we need to do is be sure of this. If you're comfortable, and only if, I don't see why it wouldn't work. I mean shit, John," Greg sputtered, "just seeing how much you love him makes me love you even more."

John squeezed Greg and kissed his shoulder. "Do you need to think on it?"

"No. I don't believe so," Greg said. 

"I love him," John murmured. "And I love you."

Greg turned in his seat and ran his fingers into John's hair, not caring that they were in public, and pulled him into a kiss. John sighed as their lips moved together. 

Now it was only a matter of explaining it to Sherlock and seeing if he felt the same.


	24. Cuffed

John and Greg made it through the front door around eight, knowing full well they would need to be more sober to talk things over with Sherlock, and found the house dark. Greg went to the loo while John fished his mobile from his pocket and texted Sherlock. Unsurprisingly, he was still in the middle of an experiment at Bart's, elbows possibly deep in some poor soul.

John sent a short message as he looked through the fridge.

LEFT OVER SPAGHETTI IN THE FRIDGE WHEN YOU WANT IT 

His mobile pinged right away with a response.

NOT HUNGRY. BE HOME LATE. INTERESTING LIVER. SH

John chuckled to himself and closed his eyes, imagining Sherlock with goggles on and fingers covered in blood. How that image could make him fond instead of disgusted seemed to have to do with exposure levels more than personal preferences.

"Sherlock won't be home till late," John said as Greg moved up behind him.

Greg hummed and kissed the side of John's neck, pulling him close and holding his waist. "Mmm, I think I'd like to take advantage of that."

"Oh, really?" John chuckled letting his head fall forward as Greg rolled his hips and rubbed his face against the back of his neck, stubble pulling and making him itch for more rough treatment.

"God, yes," Greg grunted, fingers digging into John's hips. "Want to fuck you up against the wall."

John's knees nearly buckled at the thought and he swallowed roughly as he felt his cock fill out. "Think you could manage?"

Greg chuckled. "To hold you down?" he asked. "You want me to, so yeah, reckon I could."

John slipped from his grip and pushed Greg up against the kitchen table, not willing to break right away. The tension had been bubbling under the surface that whole week and when things got like this, the air so thick with tension that a match alone could light the place, John needed badly to put up a fight.

It wasn't a part of himself that he necessarily liked, the need to be dominated from time to time, but one thing he'd learned from Greg was that acceptance and appreciation could be separate. He could accept that this was something he needed without liking that he needed it. He'd leave the liking up to Greg.

"Do you really think you have it in you, old man?" John pressed, sinking his teeth into Greg's shoulder.

Greg always loved this part. As much as they had wrestled with this in the beginning of their relationship, he'd finally become comfortable with the fact that he could, if he put his all into it, get John down and cuffed in no time. At first, he'd been too afraid to use full force. Afraid John would get hurt, afraid he would be angry, or, worse yet, embarrassed. 

Eventually he felt comfortable enough to do it, though. John had been pushing him all night and when their eyes had locked John had nodded slightly. That had been a particularly insightful night.

John pressed his cock against Greg's thigh and grinned, already breathing roughly through his nose. 

It wasn't brute force, but simple manipulation. He didn't have to break John's wrist, just turn his body swiftly until it bent to his will. It was always a rush, always, and this was no exception. His knees protested as he brought John to the ground, a grunt leaving him as John jackknifed.

"Give in, John," he growled. "Let me take care of it."

"You couldn't take care of a damn thing," John teased, bucking. "Not even that poor houseplant on your desk."

"Well, maybe if all that houseplant needed was a good hard fucking," Greg replied, emphasizing with two rough thrusts of his hips, "it would be flourishing."

"Crude," John said, moaning as the first of the cuffs was clicked into place.

"Mmm," Greg agreed. "You like it."

The second handcuff was placed and Greg sat back on his haunches and looked down at John. He really was beautiful like that, cheeks painted with colour and panting into the tile.

"You gonna spend the whole night looking?" John asked, hands clenching and unclenching.

"Might just," Greg replied, pulling the back of John's shirt from his trousers and running a cool hand up his back. "Wait for His Nibs to come home. Wonder what he'd think."

Greg felt the shiver run down John spine and ran his fingernails along with it.

"Greg," John said, more a breath than anything.

"That turn you on?"

"Yes," John squeaked.

"Good," Greg said, standing and walking to the bedroom.

John squirmed, flush darkening and skin covered in gooseflesh. "Greg, you can't, you wouldn't really-"

Greg walked back into the room, thumb opening the bottle of lube with a snick, and grinned at him. "Was that good for you? That moment when you thought I just might? Did it get that heart of yours going, John? Hammering away?"

John snorted and settled a bit. "You bastard."

Greg grinned at him and dribbled a small bit of lube on his lower back just to make John squirm again. "Hammering away like a frightened sparrow."

"Cut the hyperbole and get on with it," John shot back, rolling his hips and hissing at the pressure against his cock.

Greg chuckled and reached under him, unbuckling John's belt and pulling down his zip before slowly dragging his trousers and pants down until they were just below the swell of John's arse. John groaned as his cock was pressed into the cool tile and Greg cupped his arse in both hands, squeezing.

"Jesus," John moaned.

Greg pulled him up onto his knees and gave his cock a quick pull before shucking his own trousers and pants. He was hard, God, how he was hard. John in cuffs always seemed to push even the boundaries of biology and turn him into a horny teenager again. He felt like he could go off at any time.

He lubed up his cock and slipped it between John's thighs, bracketing his knees with his own and pushing them together. He thrust once just to let some tension go before hauling John up and holding him against his chest.

"Fuck, John," he growled as his cock pressed the back of John's bollocks and John's cuffed hands scrambled for purchase between them.

John was breathing roughly through his open mouth, head lolling back with every thrust. It felt so close to good, so close to enough, but it wasn't. He knew from experience that he'd have to deal with that not enough until Greg was good and done with him. That thought alone nearly pushed him over the edge. 

Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.

"What if he walked in right now?" Greg whispered, fucking between John's upper thighs ruthlessly and ignoring when the cuffs dug into the skin of his stomach.

"Jesus, Greg," John moaned, surprised by not only the words but by Greg's hand as it closed around his cock.

"How turned on do you think he'd be?" Greg whispered, stroking John swiftly.

"I-I don't know," John sputtered.

Greg felt himself getting close and started to thrust in small aborted motions, eyes fluttering closed as he imagined Sherlock finding them. "I bet he thinks of us. I bet he wonders what you sound like when I'm fucking you."

John was shaking and sputtering and his thighs clenched as he drew closer to climax.

"I thought of you two," Greg admitted, voice airy and higher in pitch than normal, "when I thought you were together. Thought of you fucking him."

"Oh, my god!" John wailed, shouting the last word.

Greg was a bit worried by the confession, feeling close to losing consciousness, but he couldn't stop himself from going on. "Thought of you pushing into his sweet arse. Fuck, John, fuck you're gonna make me come."

John grunted and started to come himself, painting the floor with it and wheezing as his body twitched. Greg milked him through it and fell over the edge just as John started to slump, shooting off between John's thighs and ruining his pants and trousers.

It took a while, and an amount of strength Greg wasn't sure he'd have, but Greg managed to remove the cuffs and get John undressed and into bed. John was limp against him as he slid into bed behind him and kissed his sweaty neck.

"You good?" Greg asked sleepily.

"Never better," John replied, voice soft.

Greg smiled softly and held him tighter. "Love you."

"Mmm," John sighed. "You too."


	25. The Proposition

Sherlock knew he shouldn't have stayed out so late. Now that he'd finally made it home, well, to John and Greg's home, both men were asleep in bed, wrapped around each other. It was the first time the three of them hadn't gone to bed together since they started this whole act of lunacy. 

Lunacy, it was, Sherlock thought as he unlaced his shoes and then stood to undress. They were grown men. Grown men didn't invite their friends to sleep wedged between them. Lunacy.

When he was finally down to his pants he stood at the edge of the bed and tried to figure out what he should do. John would probably panic if he awoke the next morning without Sherlock having been in the bed, although whether he would know was questionable, as he wasn't a detective or genius. Sherlock still got the feeling that he would. Somehow. 

So yes, he was going to get into bed. Just as soon he figured out how he was meant to do that. 

Greg's body covered most of the bed, laying like a starfish and snoring softly, while John took up the part closest to the wall. Sherlock chewed his bottom lip and slid under the covers, situating himself in the crook of Greg's left arm and trying not to wake him by touching as little of his body as possible.

If Greg were more like him he would worry that his thoughts alone would wake the man.

He woke anyways, snuffling and pulling Sherlock close to him, hot breath in Sherlock's hair as a soft kiss was pressed to his skin. Sherlock pressed his face to Greg's neck and Greg kissed him again.

"You comfortable?" he asked, voice soft.

Sherlock felt so impossibly small, so peculiarly minuscule, that he was surprised that his voice registered at all. "Yes."

"Good," Greg murmured, fingers settling against Sherlock's scalp. "Go to sleep now."

Sherlock let himself close his eyes, cheeks hot from the soft treatment, and listened to Greg's breathing even out again.

_____

The next morning John and Greg were in the shower when Sherlock woke. He could hear them talking softly and pressed his face against the doorway to listen in.

"-make something for breakfast I think we can talk to him before-" John was saying.

Sherlock shrank back, stomach twisting.

He should have seen it coming. Ridiculous to think he could just play interloper for the rest of their lives. But, Christ, if he didn't want just one more night.

He was sat at the kitchen table when John and Greg emerged semi-dressed from the loo, and, although that wasn't out of the norm, there was something definitely wrong. Greg picked up on it right away as John was busy drying his own hair.

"Are you hungry?" Greg asked. "Was thinking of making omelettes."

Sherlock thought that an omelette wasn't a particularly bad last meal, if he had to choose, and nodded. John sat next to him and turned him by his shoulders to get a good look at his back.

"I think we should change your bandages tonight," he said, fingers running along the edges of gauze carefully.

"Mycroft's people can handle that," Sherlock said, a little uneasy with John going all the way across town to Baker Street to help him.

John's hand stilled on his back and Sherlock tried his very best to hide the way the act made him want to rest against John.

"You want them to change the bandages?" John asked. "Last time you saw them you nearly pulled your own hair out. Called them amateurs. Which is really insulting, but the way, to someone who's gone through medical school."

"I don't want to bother you," Sherlock said, trying to imbue the words with disinterest.

"You don't want to...since when?" John asked with a snort. "Bothering me is almost a full time job for you."

"Well, I won't be around, and you have work today. You won't feel like-" Sherlock tried to explain.

"What do you mean you won't be around?" John asked, head cocked to the side. "I canceled a pint with Mike so we could all watch that thing on Nova."

Greg, who had been watching the conversation unfold as he cooked, sighed and interjected. "He was listening in. When we were talking in the shower."

"Oh," John said.

"Not very well, I might add," Greg said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, well, why don't you just get it all out, then? Tell me how unwelcome I am," Sherlock bit out.

John sighed and looked to Greg for help.

"We have a proposition of sorts," Greg said.

Sherlock blinked up at him, that sentence not one he was prepared for. His brain listed off every single time he'd heard that phrase but nothing made sense.

Wait. 

Wait.

Sex? Was this about...no...it couldn't...

"Hey, breathe," John said resting a hand on Sherlock's thigh.

"I'm not a prostitute," Sherlock sputtered, eyes wide and hands shaking.

John took one of Sherlock's shaking hands in his and looked him in the eye. "We know that."

'Trying to spice up their sex life?' Mycroft's voice said from inside Sherlock's head.

"I'm not interested in sex," Sherlock said, hoping to cut this entire conversation off at the knees. The bloody, bloody, knees.

"That's fine," Greg said, plating up their food and joining the two men at the table.

"Good. Good. Wait, how is that fine? If you want me to...do...whatever...this is," Sherlock said weakly.

"Christ," John said, head hanging. "Stop-stop thinking whatever you're thinking."

Sherlock snorted and crossed his arms, nose scrunched up and upper lip pulled back. "Stop thinking. That's rich."

"We're asking if you'd be open to a relationship with us," Greg said, watching as Sherlock took the information in.

Relationship. With. What?

_____

Sherlock was sitting in his mind palace flipping through back issues of Vogue, looking for some sort of hint as to what could possibly be happening, and speaking aloud to himself, while John and Greg watched his eyelids flutter and received no response.

"I think you broke him," John said, sitting back with a sigh and picking up his plate, anything to keep his hands busy.

Greg chewed on his bottom lip and scooted his chair closer to Sherlock's, taking his hand and threading their fingers together. 

They were both done eating by the time Sherlock came to.

"You want to date me," he said. "Polyamory."

John looked a bit embarrassed and nodded. "That's, ah, that's, yes."

"If you're not interested-" Greg tried.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, voice even.

John and Greg exchanged glances. 

"Because we both care about you," Greg said. "We don't want to stop ourselves from showing it if we don't have to."

"Romantically," Sherlock added.

"Yes," John said, seemingly getting his bearings back. "Very much so."

"You want to kiss me," Sherlock said.

John chuckled and ran a hand over his face. He may not have known exactly how this was going to go, but these pointed statements were surprising.

Greg squeezed Sherlock's hand. "We want to kiss you. If you're okay with that. We want everything that a romantic relationship involves."

"But no one can know," Sherlock said, finally.

"Why would...what do you mean no one can know?" John asked, stomach turning unpleasantly.

"Because you're getting married. If they knew I was a, whatever, then people would treat you badly. So no one can know," Sherlock said softly, eyes fixed on his and Greg's hands.

Greg bristled. "People can bugger off if they have a problem with it. This needs to be official, or it won't work."

"I'm your...boyfriend?" Sherlock asked.

"If you like. Or partner," John said.

"Well, that makes more sense because-" Sherlock started. 

And abruptly stopped, becuase that was where he passed out.

_____

"There you are," Greg said, pushing Sherlock's hair back from his forehead with a damp cloth.

Sherlock blinked up at him and then looked to John. John, who was smiling pityingly at him and holding his hand like he was a child.

"Stop looking at me like that," he said, trying for stern, "and do the kissing part."

John chuckled and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Sherlock's and running a hand into his hair. Sherlock sighed into his mouth and relaxed. This was nice. Very nice.

John pulled away after a few long moments that seemed to be in slow motion and Sherlock dragged Greg towards him by the front of his shirt, letting go when he was a breath away and looking suddenly nervous.

"Hi," Greg said, grinning.

Sherlock kissed him, eyes fluttering closed, and John made a needy little sound to their right.

"Sorry," John said, cheeks heating. "Sorry."

Greg started to giggle and John joined in, hands unwilling to stop threading through Sherlock's curls.

"I really have to go to work," Greg said finally, sounding miserable.

"That's a ridiculous thing to do at a time like this," Sherlock said, sounding quite affronted.

Greg chuckled and kissed him again before kissing John and standing. "You two be good while I'm gone."

"Do my best," John said, smiling up at Greg incandescently.

"Good is a relative term," Sherlock insisted.

"I love you," Greg said, running a thumb across Sherlock's bottom lip, "and you," he added to John.

John walked Greg to the door and then outside, taking a moment to pull him in and rest his face against his neck. Greg petted his head and John sighed.

"Went better than you thought?" he asked, voice low.

John nodded against him. "Yeah. Even with him passing out. How horrid is that?"

"Not horrid at all," Greg said. "See you two for lunch?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. Get back to it, then," Greg said, drawing back and kissing John on the forehead.

John nodded and went back into the house.

Sherlock was in the shower, John could hear it, and John was fine with that. It gave him some time to clean up the kitchen and think. 

In all honesty, this was the part he was fearing. Him, alone with Sherlock. Him having to admit how long he'd had feelings for Sherlock. Him not saying that he'd have continued his cowardly ways for the rest of his life, if not for Greg. Him thinking it.

Avoidance had always been his favorite form of action, when it came to emotions. Hell, look how long it took for him to get together with Greg. He still didn't know how this had all happened. It was only a week since Sherlock had showed back up from the dead.

Some of it had to do with Sherlock, of course. He was the one that was originally (surprisingly) open about his emotions. John had thought he'd found a kindred soul in the emotional avoidance game. The time away had done a lot to Sherlock, and maybe the fact that John was at first completely unavailable had helped. No chance of a broken heart if everything was framed in past tense.

_____

Sherlock was in the shower. He kept getting water in his mouth because of the fact that he couldn't seem to stop grinning. Grinning and letting the spray assault his face. Best move the shower head, then.

Everything was bloody amazing. John and Greg wanted him to stay, wanted him to...

He swallowed roughly and pushed down the urge to cry with relief. Who on earth gets to have the only two people they'd ever truly loved, and who among them gets that at once?

There was the small matter of him lying about the sex. Perhaps not so small. Yes, he'd buggered that up. But they loved him, they LOVED him. People who loved people forgave silly things like lying about wanting sex. He did want sex, after all. A lot of sex. All the sex he could manage to get his greedy paws on.

The thought aroused him and he tried to shake it off.

But, the sex. Yes. Yes, he'd rather like that. He'd spent an embarrassing amount of time wanking over both John and Greg. Sometimes, with them in the other room. Lately, so much that it had chafed. That was about the only thing he did at Baker Street at that point, wanked. Wanked and cried. (But stop, because that was over now, wasn't it?)

He scrubbed himself thoroughly and washed his hair and contemplated not dressing. Perhaps being in only a towel would get John aroused enough to ask if he was serious about the no sex thing. 

No, that wouldn't work. John was a human being. Human beings didn't pressure others into sex, no matter how much those others secretly wanted it. (The normal human wasn't a monster.) Because, and if anyone knew this it was Sherlock, you can't always read other people's secrets. He'd been convinced that John wasn't interested in him, been convinced the same of Greg.

He slipped into the spare bedroom and pulled on a pair of pyjama trousers and a soft t-shirt, the one he knew made John's eyes drift to his neck.

Oh. OH. John looked his neck. Interesting.

He put on his best confident face and strolled out to the sitting room, hoping to seem more sure than he had been. He hadn't ever been unsure about how he felt about John or Greg, not even when he'd passed out. They was overheating and too much information to process at once, that's all.

The moment John looked up at him, eyebrows knit tightly and obviously nervous, his confident façade failed. He was suddenly shy and, bloody hell (really?), blushing. John licked his lips and smiled, looking so soft that Sherlock had to go to him and curl into his lap.

Like John's grandfather's St Bernard, he didn't quite fit. John chuckled and ran his fingers into Sherlock's still damp curls.

"You alright?" John asked.

Sherlock hummed and pressed his face to John's chest, breathing in.

"Good, that's...good," John said, just as affected he thought he'd be by having a lap full of consulting detective. "We were worried about you for a minute there."

"Simple malfunction," Sherlock murmured, letting his eyes fall closed as John massaged his neck with one hand. 

John chuckled and sighed happily. "I suppose that's one way of seeing it. It's this...is this alright?"

Sherlock hummed again, nosing at John's neck, and John squeaked. Sherlock looked up to find John's cheeks a soft pink.

"I might," John tried, clearing his throat. "I might not be able to, um, stop myself from, getting a bit worked up. Fair warning."

And there it was, Sherlock's chance to set the record straight about the sex thing. He opened his mouth and his eyes grew wide and he simply muttered a strange affirmative before starting over. "That's good. I mean fine. Natural. Natural that I would give you an erection." He giggled a bit feverishly. "I wasn't, I didn't think that before, of course. I didn't suspect you of having, of, of erections before."

"It doesn't bother you?" John asked nervously.

'I want to see it and put it in my mouth,' Sherlock didn't say.

"It's a c-compliment," he said instead.

John snorted and ran a hand over his face. "Glad you see it that way."

"Do you love me?" Sherlock asked, burying his face in John's neck again before he could finish. "Greg said, but I don't know if-"

"I have loved you for so many years. So many," John replied, voice cracking.

"I've loved you since the beginning," Sherlock admitted, mind going back. 

John kissed Sherlock's head and Sherlock nuzzled him a bit more.

"We've got to get you breakfast. Not sure that omelette will be any good if we reheat it," John finally said.

"Can I have pancakes?" Sherlock asked. "And then we can kiss some more."

"Sounds good," John said with a laugh. "Up you get."

Sherlock stood and John followed him to the kitchen, still a bit woozy himself from the recent development.


	26. Appetite

"And John is okay with this?" Sally asked, sitting with Greg a week later as he filled out the relationship disclosure papers.

"Yes."

"Does this mean he's going to start coming to practices?" she asked, sitting back in her seat and looking a bit ill. "Cause that should be a Sherlock free zone."

"You'll survive," he said dismissively.

She fidgeted for a moment and then sighed. "But you're happy...so I'm happy."

Greg paused, pen pressed to the paper, and looked over at her. "Thank you."

Sally rolled her eyes and went back to her work.

_____

Greg was happy to get home that night. His boss's boss was not only homophobic, but apparently against anything besides a relationship between one man and one woman. The thought, and the sentence required to describe it, made Greg's stomach turn. He honestly thought he wasn't going to get out of the meeting alive. Self immolation was a coat pocket away.

The second he walked through the door he started to feel more relaxed. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table with seven different newspapers open and a pencil stuck behind his ear as he rambled to himself.

Greg walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, closing his eyes and pressing his face to Sherlock's neck.

"He'll get over it. He'll single you out for a while, but you're much too good at your job for him to profit from continuing to malign you," Sherlock said without looking up from the papers.

"Did you really just say I was good at my job?" Greg asked, kissing the back of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock shivered and cleared his throat. "That was, of course, in confidence. If it gets out that you have my utmost faith, it would ruin my reputation."

"Your reputation as a grumpy bastard who doesn't respect anyone?" Greg asked with a snort.

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed. "That's the one."

"You git," Greg teased, pulling away and going to the fridge.

"I worked years to be seen that way. If people believe I don't respect anyone they can't think I would change my answers to make anyone happy. If they believe I respect you now it will only be becuase we're dating, in their minds," Sherlock added.

"Christ," Greg said, pulling a beer out and opening it with a key. "You're right on that."

"Of course I'm right."

Greg pulled on the beer and set about finding something to make for dinner while Sherlock did whatever the hell he was doing.

They'd settled into life together relatively easily. Greg and John had made sure not to show Sherlock enough physical attention as to make him, or themselves, too excited, and Sherlock had been too busy with the terror plot to really notice. Said plot had been handed over to Sherlock's older brother that day, though, so things were bound to change.

Mycroft, for his part, had been completely silent about the three men getting together. In secret he told Anthea that he'd tried to set Sherlock up with both Greg and John, in turn, and that he was apparently a better matchmaker than he'd thought. She hadn't responded, or looked up from her mobile, but she was pleased.

John got home just as Greg was cooking up some chicken and putting noddles on to boil. He came into the kitchen and kissed Sherlock on the cheek before joining Greg at the stove and rubbing is shoulders.

"Smells fantastic, love," he said.

"Thank you," Greg said dramatically, reaching back to tap John on the nose.

"Sherlock," John said. "Will you be in tonight?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied flatly.

"Not obviously," Greg said, "but apparently."

"I picked up a copy of the new Bond film. Thought we could do a movie night like we used to," John explained.

"Will there be popcorn?" Sherlock asked, turning and eyeing John carefully.

"If you eat your dinner," John said with a smirk.

"You're a menace," Sherlock said, shuffling the papers loudly.

"What on earth are you doing, anyhow?" John asked.

Sherlock stilled, cheeks heating. Now that he thought of it, his research was meant to be a secret. "Nothing."

John narrowed his eyes but dropped it. It didn't involve bodily fluids, so he should take that as a win.

Sherlock was looking over different wedding announcements and attempting to write one for Greg and John. They hadn't spoken about the wedding since that first night two weeks before, and even then it hadn't been a real conversation, but Sherlock knew it was going to be planned soon. He wanted the planning to go well. He thought that maybe if he started on it now, in secret, it wouldn't seem like that big of a task once it was upon them.

Upon them. Them. That bit was important because Sherlock was taking the boyfriend thing incredibly seriously and if there was one thing that kept popping up everywhere he looked, it was that a good boyfriend was supportive. 

Since he had no idea what that meant in emotional terms, and was too afraid that he would find out he'd already buggered it up to do any research in that arena, he worked on what he knew. He knew he could help John and Greg with the wedding. So he did. Without asking. In secret. 

_____

Once dinner was finished the three of them piled onto the sofa, Greg pulling a blanket over them, and they started Bond and The Red Handed Devil, or Bond and The Man From Krasnoyarsk, or some other such nonsense. Either way, Sherlock was situated between them and he was scarfing down popcorn, in lieu of dinner, and John was completely fixated on the screen. It gave Greg the perfect opportunity to stare at them, which he did.

Sherlock was adorable when he ate popcorn, no matter how much he'd deny it. He crammed popcorn into his mouth handfuls at a time, fingers shiny with butter, and dropped a good amount of it back into the bowl. It didn't seem to bother him in the least.

John, sitting next to him, was enthralled by what was on the screen. Any time John was that concentrated on anything it was a sight to be held. He studied films so carefully the first time he saw them, gleaning all the information he could and attempting to memorize every detail. Greg would often find him awake early the next day watching the film for a second time before he had to return it.

Knowing these little things, these things he was sure no one else knew, made Greg feel more connected to them. Not secrets, perhaps, but close enough.

Sherlock finally noticed and leaned in for a salty kiss. He seemed to like kissing out of the blue. At first Greg had thought it was to get him to stop doing whatever he happened to be doing at the time, but now he thought it was more a matter of Sherlock remembering that he was allowed kisses. Kissing, it had turned out, was his favourite pastime.

"You done with that?" Greg asked, reaching for the bowl.

Sherlock gave it freely and slipped out from under the blanket to go wash his hands. When he came back he got to his knees to slip back under the blanket and Greg's heart decided that was a very interesting pose. It sent note to his prick and then he was sitting with the beginnings of an erection for the next thirty minutes.

It didn't go away thirty minutes later, but became more urgent.

Sherlock and John were arguing about the movie and John leaned in to kiss Sherlock enough to shut him up. Sherlock pulled him closer and leaned back and the two of them were suddenly snogging and writhing in Greg's lap. John saw the way things were going and attempted to stop it before it got out of hand.

"Sherlock," he panted, pulling away slightly.

Sherlock growled and wrapped his legs around John's body, immobilizing John and getting a moan out of Greg, who's prick was being inadvertently massaged by Sherlock's elbow.

"For Christ's sake," John said, exasperated and squirming, "this is, don't you think it's a bit...Greg, help me out here."

"Sherlock," Greg said, running his fingers into Sherlock's hair and trying to steady his voice, "your getting John a little-"

"I know what I'm doing!" Sherlock hissed, rolling his hips. "I'm trying to bloody get off!"

All three of them froze and Sherlock's eyes went wide as he realised what he'd said. For a few moments it was like the room was on pause.

"Trying to get off?" John finally asked, cheeks flushed.

"Y-yes," Sherlock sputtered. "Isn't that...isn't that okay?"

Greg's erection was screaming in his ear to tell Sherlock how okay it was and it took a second before he could breathe again. "We thought you weren't interested in that sort of thing."

"Well, not when I thought you just wanted me for sex!" Sherlock whinged.

John let out a weak laugh and looked up at Greg with furrowed brows, then back down at Sherlock. "What kind of...I mean, do you often-"

"I have a large appetite," Sherlock blurted.

"Christ, okay," Greg said. "Then let's...take this to the bedroom."

Sherlock jumped up and walked quickly to the bedroom, leaving Greg and John to stare at each other in confused elation.


	27. I Think I'm Going To

John expected Sherlock to be nervous. They'd been kissing and such, but he had no idea what Sherlock's sexual history was. Greg couldn't wait to soothe those nerves. 

They found Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed in just his pants, hands over his crotch. He was breathing heavily through his nose and was flushed from his chest to the tips of his ears. He was also resolutely staring at the ground.

Greg went to him, cupping his jaw and raising his chin so he could kiss him. Sherlock responded beautifully, hands fisting the bedsheets as he licked back into Greg's mouth and moaned. John watched them and undressed to his pants, then went to trade places with Greg.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, kissing Sherlock's jaw and neck. "Tell me what you want."

"A-anything?" Sherlock sputtered in response.

Greg chuckled and moved up behind John. "Within reason."

"Can we...can we lay like we do when we go to sleep?" Sherlock asked, eyes falling to the ground again.

"Of course," John said, kissing him again before crawling onto the bed.

Sherlock looked to Greg and waited to move until he nodded, slotting himself behind John and moaning as he rolled his hips. Greg undressed quickly and slipped behind him, kissing the back of his neck and rolling his hips.

"Oh, bloody hell," Sherlock groaned, the first curse either man could remember hearing from him.

"That's it," Greg murmured, carefully not pressing against Sherlock's back as he did it again.

John slipped his cock out of his pants and started to pull at it as Sherlock rutted against his arse. It was near overwhelming in a way that being still in your pants shouldn't allow. Sherlock reached his hand around and wrapped his fist around John's, stroking with him and breathing hard against his neck.

"This is...this is..." he tried.

"God, yes," John moaned, wishing he could kiss Sherlock but not willing to move as the panting against his neck was enough to tell him Sherlock was close.

"You like this?" Greg asked rolling his hips and reaching around to tweak one of Sherlock's nipples.

Sherlock bucked and let out a shuttering sigh, nodding frantically. "Thought about it. Every night."

"Dirty boy," Greg teased.

Sherlock's hand reflexively tightened around John's and John grunted at the added pressure.

"Thought about you, too," John admitted.

"Teased him about it while we fucked a while back," Greg said with a snicker.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, voice breathy and higher in pitch than usual.

"Couldn't help it. You're bloody sexy," Greg said.

"I want more," Sherlock said. "Later. Later I want more."

"Yeah?" John asked.

"Want to feel you in me. Both of you," Sherlock whinged. "God, oh, God I want it."

John and Greg both took that with moans and particularly hard thrusts. John couldn't believe how close he was to coming, although he'd already been close with the simplest of touches on the sofa. Greg always took a little longer to get there but, Christ if seeing Sherlock snog John on the sofa didn't get him going.

"I think," Sherlock said, voice weak, "I'm going to..."

"Go ahead," Greg said, rocking against him and peppering his neck with kisses.

"C'mon," John agreed. 

"Some of it," Sherlock whispered, "some of it will get on you." He then shook and came in his pants, rutting against John and crying out. 

John cursed and turned around, kissing the small gasps out of Sherlock's mouth and fisting his cock with frightening intent. He couldn't stop himself from looking at Sherlock's stomach, knowing that when he finally came it would paint Sherlock in a way his brain wouldn't be able to forget.

"Please," Sherlock said, voice small and eyes wide, somehow asking to be marked.

"Okay, love, okay," John said, looking up to Greg suddenly before thrusting into his fist and spilling over.

"Jesus Christ," Greg hissed, closing his eyes and shuddering.

"My god," John spat, stroking himself slowly now as he came down, and leaning in to kiss the breath out of Sherlock.

Greg gritted his teeth and gripped Sherlock's hip roughly, his own hips pounding out a quick rhythm.

John reached out for Greg without breaking the kiss with Sherlock and gripped Greg's hair. It was the last little bit Greg needed and he was wheezing and coming for what felt like days.

When they were finally a little more conscious, John grinned at Greg and the two of them broke out in giggles. Sherlock chuckled between them and drew in a much needed breath.

"God, that was good," John sighed, rolling onto his back while running his fingers through the come on Sherlock's stomach.

"Mmm," murmured Greg, kissing Sherlock's shoulder gently. "Couldn't agree more."

"Can't wait for next time," Sherlock said, so thoroughly sated that he couldn't quite move and definitely couldn't open his eyes.

That cause more peals of laughter and, after John used his pants to clean off Sherlock's stomach, the three men fell asleep like that, limbs tangled together and ridiculously happy.

_____

The next morning Greg woke to find Sherlock climbing over him to get to the bedside table. He cleared his throat and rolled onto his back so Sherlock could reach.

"What in god's name are you doing?" he asked, eyes still bleary.

"The alarm is about to go off and then you've only got an hour before work, so I thought I'd hurry up and prepare myself so that you can come in me quickly and get in a shower before you have to go. I want that, I've been tested, I want that," Sherlock explained in a frenzy.

"What's going on?" John asked, just waking himself.

"Sherlock wants sex," Greg snorted, his morning hard on thanking whatever gods might answer the prayers of cocks.

John grinned and watched as Sherlock quickly slicked two fingers and started to rub them against his arsehole.

"Slow down," Greg said, rubbing Sherlock's chest. "If need be I'll show up to work late."

"Oh," Sherlock huffed. "Need someone's mouth now."

John leaned in and kissed his neck and Greg laughed at them, so eager and lovely in the morning light. Sherlock thrust one and then two fingers into himself, rolling his hips and plunging them deeper.

"Jesus, have you done this before" Greg asked, humoured by how readily Sherlock was going at his own arse.

"Frequently," Sherlock moaned.

"With, with other people?" John asked, needing to know.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and then moaning louder.

Greg leaned in to suck at one of Sherlock's nipples and Sherlock whinged and pushed him away, rolling onto his front and presenting his arse for them.

"Bloody hell," John said, reaching out to take one arsecheek in hand as he fisted his own cock. He looked over at Greg with a wide grin and nodded towards Sherlock. "You get first."

Greg grunted and moved onto his knees behind Sherlock, slicking his cock and then holding it still as he pressed his hips forward. Oh, hell, and wasn't that bloody magical. The first time in years that he'd had himself an arsehole and he'd forgot completely how tight it could be. He pulled out a bit and pushed back in, taking it slowly no matter how much his cock was telling him he was an idiot for doing so.

When he was finally fully seated he took a breath and started a slow roll of his hips, pulling out and pushing back in in an easy rhythm. He couldn't even hear what John was saying, his entire focus on that sucking heat.

"Beautiful," he choked out, saying it as if that one word held so many meanings. "Such a beautiful lad."

"Oh, God, Greg," Sherlock whinged.

Greg reached around to grip Sherlock's cock and Sherlock batted his hand away. 

"Not until," he panted, "until both, both of you have finished."

Greg nodded, unseen, and fucked Sherlock with growing speed. John lay on his side and watched as Greg thrust into Sherlock's body over and over again, pulling on his own bollocks and stoking his cock to full hardness. It took several minutes, minutes in which he cooed to Sherlock and kissed his face, but by the time he was ready to go Greg was panting and sweating and that was just gorgeous.

"You gonna do it?" John teased, smacking Greg's arse hard and grinning like a madman.

Sherlock whimpered and wriggled his arse and Greg pushed John back onto his side, grinning back and biting his lip. It only took a few more minutes before Greg started cursing under his breath and finally cried out and came, pulsing over and over again as his hips twitched and Sherlock moaned. When he finally pulled out John kissed him and took his place.

"Ready?" he asked Sherlock, running his hands down Sherlock's sides.

"Yes, now, please, please," Sherlock said weakly.

John pushed in slowly, his way slick with lube and come. He nearly came right away, thinking about how that come was Greg's and Sherlock's arsehole was filled with it. He tried to think of something else to calm himself but couldn't bring himself to.

"I'm not going to last," he admitted, cheeks flushing.

"That's fine, just, please someone touch me," Sherlock whimpered.

Greg reached below him and started to stroke him, twisting his wrist on the upstroke and causing Sherlock to shake beneath John.

"That's it," Greg said. "You two are so gorgeous."

Sherlock started to come first, making strange little clawing motions at the bedsheets and clenching around John fiercely. John gave in and dropped over the edge, pushing in as deep as he could and coming hard, God, so hard.

"Fuck," he grunted. "Fucking fuck."

He finally pulled out and kissed Sherlock's arsecheek before laying down next to him and running a finger over his bottom lip. "That what you needed?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled over, closing his eyes and nuzzling into Greg's hand as he ran his fingers through sweaty curls. "Yes."

_____

Greg did end up late for work. John lay in bed with Sherlock for a long while until the man was squirming and looking uncomfortable. They showered then and John redressed his wounds as he'd promised to the night before, all the while telling Sherlock how gorgeous and brilliant and brave he was.


	28. Trunks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's your final chapter. Thank you for those of you that stuck around for the big reveal and all my fooling. Love you.

The day finally came, John in his Queen's army dress clothes and Greg in a dove gray tux that complimented Sherlock's suit. Sherlock was their unorthodox choice of best man, as he was both of theirs, and sat between them at the reception. When it was time to give his speech the room fell silent.

It was a room full of their friends and a few family members, not many people but all of them knowing Sherlock and waiting anxiously for what they feared would be a stilted listing of John and Greg's attributes before a few awkward jokes.

What they didn't expect was to be brought to tears by a strange, yet heartfelt speech. It was, in turns, funny and sweet. It seemed that when Sherlock really wanted to he could be just as human as the rest of them.

_____

Later that week the three of them boarded a plane headed for some sunny island fairly far away.

"No wonder people always complain about the food on flights," Greg said, going for another packet of salt.

John slapped his hand away and he sighed, taking a bite of the, somehow still, bland food.

"Your tastebuds are shot this high up. The food would taste much better of they distributed it before take-off," Sherlock said, picking at a dinner roll.

"Maybe you should inform them," John said, jokingly.

Sherlock raised his hand for the flight attendant and John pulled it down with a huff, Greg laughing beside them.

_____

"It's hot," Sherlock said, once they were in the bungalow they'd rented and were putting away their things.

"It is," Greg said, pulling out a pair of red swimming trunks and waggling his eyebrows at John, "which is why we should strip down and head to the beach."

"Brilliant man," John said, shuffling his clothes around until he found his own trunks and a bottle of sunscreen.

They were both getting ready, which meant that neither of them saw what Sherlock pulled from his own luggage. A small pair of Italian swimming trunks, not quite a speedo, as it was cut lower on his hips, but showing enough skin. A small, very purple pair of Italian swimming trunks. When Sherlock started removing his clothes John was already rubbing sunblock into Greg's back, Greg talking about how they'd better make sure to reapply Sherlock's sunscreen at least every hour.

"I bet you burn," Greg shot over his shoulder, "don't ya, love?"

"After I turn as red as a lobster," Sherlock replied flatly.

"Make sure to get your face and neck," John said. "Skin cancer isn't a joke."

When they both turned around so Greg could get John's back they froze. Sherlock was standing, zinc covering his nose, adjusting the way his cock fit in his trunks. He finally seemed satisfied and looked up. John and Greg were staring.

"My nose is especially susceptible..." Sherlock said, eyebrows furrowed as he took in the men. "I HAVE to use zinc."

John cleared his throat. "That's, uh, that's a nice pair of trunks you've got."

Sherlock looked down at them and then back up. "You appreciate my purple shirt."

Greg walked away without a word, dragging John with him and Sherlock peered around the corner. 

"Sherlock," John said, soaping his hands up in the sink, "be a love and turn the air conditioner on."

"It's a waste of energy if we're just going to leave," Sherlock said with a sigh, going to do it nonetheless.

He turned after figuring out the switch and felt his breath hitch. Greg and John were both walking towards him.

"I-I thought we were going t-to the beach," he sputtered, the look in both their eyes making all his blood run south with frightening speed. He KNEW that look.

"Yeah, well," John said, licking his lips and leaning in to kiss along Sherlock's shoulder. "That was before you decided to slip into these." He added a firm squeeze to Sherlock's arse and Sherlock moaned as Greg took his mouth.

John moved up behind him and rubbed his burgeoning erection against his arse, going up on his toes to do so.

"Oh," Sherlock said as Greg drew away.

"Yes, oh," Greg replied, hand going to fondle Sherlock's prick.

"You, you like them," Sherlock said, panting already.

"Mmm," John agreed, letting his head fall to Sherlock's upper back. "Would you mind putting off the beach for a while so we can ravage you? Possibly while wearing these trunks?"

"That's, ah, yes, let's do that," Sherlock said, rubbing his arse back against John.

"I think we should take a detour," Greg said, grinning at Sherlock, "to the bed."

"Yes," Sherlock squeaked.

"Come on then," John said, moving back and pushing Sherlock by his hips to the bed while Greg sifted through his things for the lube he'd brought.

By the time Greg got to them John had already pulled Sherlock's trunks down and was mouthing at his cock, Sherlock whinging and clutching at his hair.

"Christ, you two," Greg said, coming up to the bed and leaning down to kiss Sherlock roughly, tongue pressing into his mouth greedily.

"What do you want?" John asked, looking up from where he'd been sucking along the base of Sherlock's cock.

"I'll give Greg my mouth if you," Sherlock tried, moaning when Greg nipped at his earlobe, "t-take me from behind."

"God, yes," Greg murmured against his neck.

John drew back and let Sherlock crawl on hands and knees to the edge of the bed then moved up behind Sherlock and pulled his trunks down to his knees. Greg went and stood in front of Sherlock, running the head of his cock over Sherlock's bottom lip, the darting tongue that came to meet it pushing him closer to fully hard.

"This'll be cold," John said, a moment before pouring some lube on his fingers and pressing them to Sherlock's hole.

Sherlock sighed and shifted his hips, taking the head of Greg's prick between his lips and pressing his tongue under the foreskin. Greg hissed and moaned as Sherlock ran his tongue in slow circles, stretching his foreskin and playing with the sensitive slit. 

John soon had two fingers pumping in and out of Sherlock and the way it made Sherlock suck harder was driving Greg mad. 

"Gentle, love," Greg said, fingers tangling in Sherlock's hair. "Don't want to come yet."

Sherlock let him push his hips in at a leisurely pace and kept his mouth soft and wet as John opened him the last bit.

"Ready?" John asked, positioning himself behind Sherlock and slicking up his cock.

Sherlock answered with his mouth full and Greg groaned. John chuckled and pushed in, the laugh being cut off as tight heat enveloped his cock.

"Gorgeous, fucking gorgeous," John said, thrusting his hips slowly until he was fully seated.

He started to push Sherlock forward by his hips so he took more of Greg into his mouth and all three men groaned. The speed picked up and soon Sherlock was bouncing between them.

"Jesus Christ," Greg cursed, "getting close. You need a hand?"

Sherlock nodded and John reached under Sherlock to let his prick push into a tight fist with every push forward. Greg moaned as Sherlock took desperate little breathes through his nose and started to keen.

"Come on," John pressed.

Sherlock became more desperate and sucked hard and Greg grunted and started to come. John thrust harder when Greg pulled his spent cock from Sherlock's mouth, urged on by the sounds Sherlock was making. He stroked Sherlock quickly and tried to shift his hips to hit Sherlock's prostate. It was impossible with Sherlock's knees together so he changed his tactic, needing to feel Sherlock come before he did.

"You gonna come for me, Sherlock?" he asked, voice rough. "You gonna come in my hand and clench down on my cock?"

Greg caught on and went to his knees in front of Sherlock, kissing him gently before pulling away. "Are you going to be good for John, love? I know you want to, want to be so good."

Sherlock nodded and John felt him tense.

"Come in his hand," Greg prompted, as John grunted on the bed. "Come in his hand and get the sheets all dirty. Come on, come in his hand. Be good. I know you can be good. Doesn't John's hand feel good on your cock? Doesn't he feel good pushing into you? Don't you want to come for him, come all over his hand? Be good, Sherlock."

And that did it, Sherlock let out a cry and clenched his eyes closed and spent himself all over the bed, John pushing into him in aborted little thrusts. It didn't take long for John to come, shaking with effort.

Greg stroked Sherlock's face and peppered him with kisses. "Perfect, always so perfect."

John pulled out and sat back on his haunches, rubbing Sherlock's back as the man slumped to the bed. When he started to giggle Sherlock giggled along with him, not sure why. John pointed to Greg's crotch and laughed harder. Greg and Sherlock looked down to find Greg's pubic hair white from the zinc.

"At least it won't get burned," Greg said with a shrug.

Sherlock snorted and John laughed harder.

_____

The honeymoon went well and, on the last day, Greg and John proposed to Sherlock on the beach. They couldn't get married, obviously, but he got a matching gold band and they started planning a hand fasting ceremony the second they got back to London.

In six months the three of them were happily committed and ridiculously in love, and, thinking about adopting. 

A dog. An Irish setter. Obviously.


End file.
